


The Phenomenal Menace

by ambreignstrain



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Drama, Humor, M/M, Seth-3PO is a thing, Slow Burn, Star Wars AU, action and adventure, also there are Ewoks, bounty hunter Roman, may the farce be with you, ship captain Ambrose, so is Cesar2-D2, this is kind of ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-09-07 16:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 69,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8807560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambreignstrain/pseuds/ambreignstrain
Summary: Star Wars AU. Bounty hunter Roman Reigns has been given a mission to find and collect Rebel thief AJ Styles, who is currently the most-wanted man in the entire Galaxy. Things do not go according to plan.When Roman meets Dean Ambrose, the scruffy captain of a questionable smuggling ship, he finds himself plunged into the middle of a situation he never expected to be.[Set roughly around the time of A New Hope.  An amalgamation of the original three Star Wars movies.]





	1. May the Farce Be With You

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** _I. The Farce Awakens_

_Tatooine._

Two blazing suns, whole lot of sand, and just a handful of people brave - or stupid - enough to try to tame this place.

The armpit of the Empire.

Also approximately the last place bounty hunter Roman Reigns wants to be stranded right now.

Not that Roman wants to be stranded _anywhere_ , what with his current bounty and Number One Threat To The Empire AJ Styles well on his way to Endor right now, but if Roman had to pick a place in the galaxy to be stranded, this would be the very last on his list.

Or - no.

Second-last.

Hoth has to be the worst.

Roman _hates_ ice planets.

Of course, baking inside his own skin-tight body armor isn't his idea of a great day, either.

It's his own fault:

He'd gotten cocky, and made a rookie mistake.

He was so sure he'd had Styles' ship incapacitated that he'd approached it straight on, instead of taking the time to fly around and approach from an angle that would've made his own ship harder to target in case of an ambush.

Styles' ship, some kind of modified A-wing, hovered like a tiny insect against the massive brown and black backdrop of the planet and space behind it.

Roman's blasters had burned black stripes into the little ship's hide.

Sensors didn't show any signs of power, either, so Roman had felt confident enough to approach head-on.

It never even occurred to him it might be a trap.

It was a trap.

Styles' ship powered up suddenly, and the next thing Roman knew, he had a whole armada's worth of cannon fire headed straight for him.

He only had time to hit the emergency eject button before his ship had blown up around him. The cockpit capsule's heat shielding held up, thankfully, and held up again long enough to see him down to this forsaken sandball of a planet, but it'd been a near thing.

When he'd finally regained consciousness, he'd been lying facedown in a sand dune, still strapped to his seat, and in the shade of a twisted scrap of metal that had probably saved his life.

The rest of his capsule lay shattered around him, along with the shreds of the parachute that'd kept him from just exploding on impact.

He'd survived, somehow, with nothing worse than a few bruises and way too much sand crawling up into places it really shouldn't be crawling.

Apparently nobody told sand it wasn't supposed to be able to penetrate skin-tight body armor.

(And Roman doesn't even want to think about what it's doing to his hair. Last time he was on a sand-heavy planet like this, it'd taken him a solid week to wash all the grit out. Which…isn't important, but it's still inconvenient - and annoying - considering he doesn't even have a tie handy to keep it off his face.)

His emergency bag had survived basically unscathed, too.

No radio, but there was at least a scanner that worked well enough to tell him that Mos Eisley spaceport was a walkable distance away.

It's not the most pleasant walk he's ever had, all things considered: over crumbly, craggy hills where there's not even hint of scrub vegetation anywhere. Under a scalded sky and in the relentless fever heat of the twin suns, he is _roasting_.

His body armor's built-in temperature regulator isn't working. Probably damaged in the crash. The armor's all black and seems to attract the suns' heat like a magnet. By half an hour in, it feels about like what he imagines being wrapped in a blanket inside a bonfire feels like.

What little water's in the emergency bag he sweats out before he can even swallow it.

But he doesn't stop - not once.

It's not in him to.

From the time he can remember, he's been training for situations like this, learning how put aside his own physical discomfort - How did I get sand up there? - in the face of a larger mission.

That mission:

AJ Styles, Rebel thief.

He'd stolen something so valuable that Emperor Heyman himself asked Roman to retrieve it.

_Or else._

Roman really, genuinely doesn't want to find out what or else means.

Knowing Emperor Heyman, it'll probably involve Roman being fed to something.

Or electrocution.

Possibly both.

If ever there was motivation to keep pushing through the endless ocean of sand and rock, it's that.

* * *

Mos Eisley spaceport isn't anything impressive.

Some grit-blasted buildings and a whole lot of grit-blasted people drifting around who look like they belong doing hard labor in an Imperial prison.

Roman, catching his breath in the shade of one of the buildings, doesn't wonder:

Planets out on the galaxy's Outer Rim like Tatooine become a refuge for criminals and smugglers by virtue of being both inhospitable and remote. On the one hand, it's harder to hide where there are fewer people, but on the other hand, regulations are a lot more lax in small spaceport cities like this, so it's easy for cargo - and people - to disappear without a trace.

For Roman, places like this are useful: there isn't much honor among criminals, and there aren't many who won't spill their guts for a few gold bars.

Way they see it, it's less competition.

It was a cantina not unlike the one Roman spots down the road that he finally caught a break on Styles' whereabouts.

And it's in this cantina he bets he'll find a ride off this rock.

Place looks exactly like Roman expects: dim, reeking of stale sweat and other odors native to the various other species packing the place. Barely enough room to turn around, let alone sit. The bar proper is lined with surly-looking patrons hunched over their drinks. The band near the entrance is playing some quirky tune Roman vaguely recognizes as something that was popular on Coruscant a decade ago. But it's sort of hard to hear it over the noise from the group playing a table game in the back.

Roman heads over to the end of the bar and catches the bartender's eye.

Small human. Dark-haired and dark-eyed. Bearded. Just as gruff-looking as everyone else in this place. "What can I getcha?"

"Blue milk," Roman tells him, sliding a gold coin across the bar. "Lookin' to hire a ship to leave as soon as possible, too. Know anybody?"

"Might." The bartender nods at the coin. "I don't have change for that."

It's a lie, but Roman lets it go. "Didn't ask for any. Consider it a finder's fee."

The bartender makes the coin disappear as neatly as a magician doing a magic trick, and turns away to pour a blue milk from a tap. "That case," he says, once he's returned with the full glass, "I'll put the word in a couple ears. Might take a few minutes."

Roman looks around and spots an empty table off to one side. "I'll be over there, then. Time is of the essence."

After the bartender nods his understanding, Roman squeezes through the throng and takes a seat at the scarred table. Back to the wall, of course. This place just reeks of bar fights and trouble, and the way a Wookie in the back corner is howling at a human over the table game, it sounds like there's a storm brewing.

Best not let his guard down.

Feels good to get off his feet, though. Feels even better to get his sweaty, matted hair back off his face. So much sand's stuck in it that it probably looks muddy. So much is sticking to his skin under his armor, too, that he can't sit comfortably.

Milk's good, though, sweet and ice cold. Goes a long way to washing the dirt out of his teeth.

He's just gotten around to setting his empty glass down when he spots a man approaching from the left: tall, lean, unshaven, same unruly sandy hair as half the humans in this watering hole, grease-stained clothes, and a jacket that's seen better days.

The man struts right up to Roman's table, pulls out a chair, spins it around backward, and slouches down into it without an invitation. He folds his forearms over the back of the chair and looks at Roman directly, fearlessly. "Word is," he drawls, pitching his voice low, "you're lookin' to hire a ship. You got the gold, I got the ship."

Roman squints at the guy, sizing him up. Smuggler, most likely. They tend to be hot-shots. Thrill-seekers. Also tend to have fast ships. This could work. "You got a name?"

"Ambrose," is the gruff answer. "Dean Ambrose. Captain of the _Millennium Falcon_. You?"

"Roman Reigns."

Recognition widens Ambrose's eyes. "As in the bounty hunter?"

"As in," Roman says carefully. "You've heard of me."

Ambrose nods, but doesn't elaborate. "Where ya headed?"

"Endor," Roman tells him. "I'd need transport there and possibly transport back to Coruscant. You got some kinda hold in your ship? I'm after a bounty. A person."

"I got a hold that'd work for that," Ambrose says, studying Roman in the same kind of open, frank way Roman's studying him. It's to his credit he doesn't ask who the bounty is or why Endor. "Would I stay on the planet to wait for you, or would I drop you off and come back? I need to know 'cuz I got some cargo to drop off not far from there in the meantime. Cost you more if I have to stick around."

"I don't know yet," Roman admits, tipping his chair back against the wall. "When-" The Wookie in the back corner growls again suddenly and slams its massive fist down on the table, effectively cutting Roman off mid-thought.

The humans at the table with the Wookie all stand up.

Ambrose rolls his eyes and leans over the table. "I got a piece of business I gotta take care of real quick. The _Falcon_ is on launchpad three. I'll meet you there in five minutes. We can finish this up and be on our way."

Just like that - like that's how it's gonna be.

"How do you know I'm even gonna go with you?" Roman demands. He's not sure he likes this…Ambrose's presumption.

"Because," Ambrose says, with a smug, hip-shot smile, "the only other pilots-for-hire on this rock are about get pounded into a paste by a Wookie." He points over a shoulder at the fracas in the corner. "'S what they get for tryina cheat. Big don't mean dumb. Shame I don't have time to watch." Pushing to his feet, he adds, "Launchpad three. I'll be there in five."

He pushes to his feet and saunters off, cat-like, into the craning crowd before Roman can even pull in a breath to say no.

The sound of a chair whacking into somebody and an ear-splitting roar is more than enough to convince Roman to shoulder his emergency bag and get outta here.

* * *

It takes him a few minutes to find launchpad three.

It's around the back of the little hut that serves as the actual dock station.

But what he find sitting on the sand-swept launchpad freezes him in his tracks.

"That's _it_?" he asks, incredulous.

What he's looking at doesn't resemble a ship as much as it does some kind of welded-together garbage heap. It's a mostly-flat thing that could've been some kind of freighter in a previous life, but that now just seems like it's about to shake apart in a breeze.

There's no way _this_ is gonna get him off this planet, much less to Endor in time to catch his bounty.

Styles is gonna get away, and Roman's about to lose this damn bounty.

And probably his own head.

All because of a ship.

"What a hunk of junk," he grumbles.

"What a lump of muscles and no brains," a droid's nasal voice snits from behind him.

The answer's punctuated by a series of the most indignant electronic beeps Roman's ever heard in his life.

When he turns, he finds the scruffy pilot standing at the entrance to the launch pad with a couple of droids beside him: one's a stout, dome-topped little droid on wheels. The other is nearly as tall as Ambrose, humanoid, and mostly gold except for a couple streaks of carbon scoring that have turned part of one side of his head black.

Looks like any one of the hundred of protocol droids Roman's seen on Imperial ships over the years.

"Did you say something?" he finally asks.

The protocol droid _huffs_. "You were judging our ship without giving it a second look. I was doing the same to you."

Bemused, Roman shakes his head. " _What_?"

"For your _information_ ," the protocol droid says snidely, "the _Millennium Falcon_ made the Kessel Run in under twelve parsecs. Which - oh. Forgive me, _sir_. That was probably too complicated for you. What I meant was, _our ship goes very fast_."

The stout little droid beside it titters in a way that sounds like it's laughing. Rocks side to side, too, weirdly.

Roman looks over at the pilot. Says, mildly, "Never seen a protocol droid with that much attitude before."

"Uh, yeah," Ambrose says, scratching the back of his head. Clearly trying not to laugh. "Seth-3PO, he got winged by a stray blaster bolt a couple months ago. I dunno. Musta fried a personality circuit or somethin'. Been kinda bitchy ever since. And-"

" _Bitchy_!" Seth-3PO squawks, outraged. He flaps his arms stiffly, like some awkward mechanical bird. "How dare you, _Captain_! I am not-!"

"Can it, Goldenrod," Ambrose cuts him off. "Don't make me sell you for scrap. And you-" he adds to the twittering little droid "-stop encouraging him."

"This your crew?" Roman asks skeptically. He's got a bad feeling about this.

Ambrose nods. "Yeah. Seth-3PO-" he points to the huffy protocol droid "-and Cesar2-D2."

The little droid beeps something that's probably a greeting.

Roman nods, and eyes the pilot again. "Does your ship actually fly?"

"Brother," Ambrose drawls, that cocky, hip-shot grin he'd flashed in the cantina quirking up one side of his mouth, "the question you gotta be askin' yourself is if I'm willing to take you on the _Falcon_ after _you_ insulted _her_. She might not like you after you hurt her feelings. Will she fly? Bet your ass she will. May not look like much, but she's the fastest ship around. Surprised you never heard of her."

A lot of the pilots Roman's worked with over the years have made claims like that about their ships. It's crap - pilots in need of gold saying whatever they have to in order to land a job.

Roman's gotten pretty good at spotting a liar over the years, though, and maybe the crash-landing scrambled his brains or something, but this guy doesn't sound like a liar. There was something more than arrogance in the way he'd swaggered up to Roman's table earlier, too.

Certainty: like he was so sure that his way was the way it was gonna be.

Maybe it is.

Maybe there's more to this pilot and this…scrap-heap that meets the eye.

In the distance, he can hear blaster fire that he can only assume is coming from the cantina.

Maybe he doesn't much of a choice here.

He needs to get to Styles.

"Look, _brother_ ," he says, drawing himself up to his full height, and glaring the most intimidating glare he can manage. It's pretty intimidating. He's seen many shrink away from it. "My life depends on collecting this bounty. That means yours will, too. If you're playing me here, I'll take your head and mount it on my wall. It'll be the last thing I do before I lose mine. So I'll give you one last chance to back off. Otherwise, if you're sure, then let's talk payment and get out of here."

Seth-3PO huffs again. Cesar2-D2 beeps. Ambrose's grin never wavers.

They are definitely intimidated.

 _Highly_ intimidated.

"Forty thousand credits," Ambrose says boldly. "I want half that up front."

"Forty _thousand_?" Roman blurts. "Come on, I could _buy_ a ship for that much!"

"Not on this rock ya couldn't," Ambrose replies confidently, swaggering past Roman to go lean against one of the scrap heap's landing arms. "Cheapest you'd find is sixty-thousand and it probably wouldn't have a hyperdrive. And, hey, this one comes with an added bonus: _me_."

" _Bonus_ ," the protocol droid snorts. It lead leads the little droid up to the heap's loading ramp. "I think you mean _menace_."

Ambrose doesn't acknowledge that, but doesn't deny it, either. He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. "You got a bounty. I got a fast ship. Twenty thousand credits'll get us underway."

Roman sets his bag on the launchpad's sandy floor. Among his weapons, spare clothing, and the sack of gold coins is a stack of ten ten-thousand credit notes. "Does your 'ship' have a washer unit in it?" he eventually asks. "I've got sand in places man was not meant to have sand. I'd like a wash."

Ambrose _leers_ , eyes raking over Roman's rear in a way that just feels obscene. "Gettin' frisky in the desert, huh? Kinky. Prolly oughtta think about leaving the armor on next time."

Roman suppresses an urge to walk over and punch him. "Yes or no?"

"Absolutely." The smile widens. There are actual dimples, just visible under the scruff. His eyes, Roman suddenly notices, are the same scalded blue as the sky. "That's also a yes on the washer unit, too. 'S all yours once we take off. So?"

"I am _not_ paying you forty thousand credits," Roman says, ignoring both the smile and the dimples. All of it. "I'll give you twenty right now. For the trip to Endor. If I need you after that, we'll talk."

"Fair enough," Ambrose shrugs. "Hand 'em over, then. Come apologize to my ship."

"A-" Roman pauses in the act of reaching for a couple of the credit notes. "I'm not apologizing to a ship."

Roman Reigns does not apologize to _anyone_ , much less junk heaps.

"Okay," Ambrose says, turning for the ramp. "Don't blame me if she bucks extra hard during take-off and you hit your head. I'm just sayin'. She's a sensitive girl."

Halfway up the entrance ramp, Seth-3PO actually sighs and mutters, "Here we go again."

Cesar2-D2 titters.

 _Yeah_ , Roman thinks dryly, menace _is about right._

But he he hands over the two ten thousand credit notes anyway, and follows the pilot - _idiot_ \- up into the belly of the _Millennium Falcon_.

* * *

The _Millennium Falcon_ does not, in fact, buck on take-off.

All things considered, Roman muses from where he's strapped into the co-pilot's seat beside an annoyingly jovial Dean Ambrose, it's one of the smoother take-offs he's had lately.

But he's still got a bad feeling about this…


	2. The Journey (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins.

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** II.  The Journey (I)

It's always jarring, the initial jump into hyperspace.

To enter hyperspace, the travel lanes that enable ships to cover the often-enormous distances between planets, a ship's hyperdrive pushes it to speeds faster than light. Speeding up that much in a short amount of time, it always feels to Roman like he's being squeezed, like gravity is pushing him extra hard into his seat.

Once they pass lightspeed and make it into hyperspace, everything equalizes, and that pressured feeling goes away all at once, like ears popping after a big altitude change.

As much as he dislikes the feeling of the jump, Roman has always enjoyed the run up to it. Going that fast, everything looks the whole universe is blurring past, all at once.

He's always wondered if this is what it's like to be inside a field of shooting stars.

The _Millennium Falcon_ makes the jump into hyperspace smoothly enough, and once she's there, her mangy captain tears his gaze away from the front viewing window and glances over to where Roman's sitting beside him. "We'll be at Endor in twenty-three hours. Feel free to go do whatever. Need help findin' anything, holler. 'S food in the galley, if you get hungry, too."

"I'm gonna get cleaned up," Roman says, unbuckling his seat's straps. The sand under his body armor has just about scratched his skin raw in a few places.

Ambrose gives him a long once-over again - narrowed blue eyes and a quirk of a smile - and says, "Need any help with that, lemme know. Be happy to lend a hand gettin' to those hard-to-reach spots."

It's probably meant to be charming or even funny, but Roman finds both the suggestive tone and the ridiculous eyebrow waggle that comes right after as irritating as the sand. He can't say why, exactly, but it just is. "Just pilot your ship," he says curtly, rising. "I can clean myself."

What's even more irritating is the way Ambrose smiles even wider, like he's not the least bit put off by the rejection. "I never said you couldn't. Sometimes it's easier with an extra set of hands. Just tryin' to be a hospitable captain."

Roman makes his way to the back of the cockpit. "I don't need hospitality. I need you to get me where I'm paying you to get me. Nothing more."

"Hey, out of curiosity," Ambrose calls after him, "what happened to your fancy ship? How come you're not flyin' yourself there?"

"Mind your business," Roman snaps. He very nearly bowls over the gold and black protocol droid in his haste to exit the cockpit. "Out of my way."

"Well, excuse _me_ ," the droid snits. And as Roman marches out into the main corridor, he hears, "What did you do you now, Captain? Do I need to draft an apology again?"

And Ambrose's lazy, "There ya go assuming it's my fault."

"Ninety-four-point-four percent of the time so far, Captain, whatever has gone wrong _has_ been your fault," Seth-3PO says, unmistakably smug. "The odds are always going to favor it being your fault."

"Never tell me the odds," Ambrose replies. He says something else, too, but the corridor bends around gently to the left, and Roman loses it under the heavy clump of his footsteps on the metal decking.

Only then does he manage to unclench his fists.

* * *

The _Millennium Falcon_ 's washroom is a cluttered like cube of a room situated in between two small bunk rooms, adjacent to a lounge, and right across from a small galley kitchen. It's not large enough for Roman to extend his arms in either direction, but it does have a pair of washer units in it: one in the rear corner for clothes and the main body washing unit at the front.

Opposite the front washer unit stands a small basin with a mirror hung over it, and it's in that mirror Roman gets a good look at himself:

Sand and dust have lightened his hair and goatee - normally a deep black - to a near-gray. It's made his face look more weathered than usual.

More concerning, though, is the damage it's done to the outside of his body armor.

Other bounty hunters in the galaxy have mocked him for his preference for skintight, sleeveless body armor. Most of them go for what, in Roman's opinion, seems much more impractical: heavy and cumbersome helmets, cloaks that often get in the way, heavy old-style chest armor, thick fabric, and clunky boots.

Roman's armor, by comparison, is much more sparse: light boots, a lightweight vest, gauntlets on his forearms, and pants that practically mold to his legs.

At a cost that to this day makes him cringe, he'd had it outfitted with technology capable of absorbing or deflecting blaster bolts. In deflector mode, the armor generates a shield that keeps him protected head to toe for short periods of time, which reduces the need for a helmet or heavy fabrics and also leaves him with a greater range of movement for hand-to-hand combat.

With the intricate tattoo on his right arm always prominent, his long dark hair down around his face, and his muscular build, he resembles a warrior much more than he does than a bounty hunter.

He prefers it that way: their derision and scorn means they underestimate him, and that gives him all the advantages in the galaxy.

But at the moment, all he can see as he looks down at himself in that claustrophobic box of a washroom is dirt-streaks and scuff marks on his chest, the rip along the outside of one thigh, a tear on one of his boots, and the hole on the bottom left of the vest in which he can actually see exposed wiring.

In addition to needing to replace his whole ship and basically every single belonging he had to his name, he'll have to get his armor fixed. And there's a distinct chance that, by the time they make it Endor, AJ Styles will be long gone anyway.

Today is just not going the way he'd hoped.

Stripping down nude is actually a relief, but it pales in comparison to the feeling of hot cleaning solution carrying grit away from his skin once he squeezes into the washer unit. It stings like a rash when he lathers cleaner all over himself, and he notices his skin prickling red in a few spots, but there is no better feeling than getting the sand out of all the nooks and crannies it never should've been able to get into in the first place.

After he's cleaned to his satisfaction, he loses himself in the simple ritual of drying himself, putting his body armor into the cleaning unit in the corner, combing out his hair, and, finally, dressing himself in the old, soft black pants and sleeveless black shirt that are the only clothes he owns now.

He doesn't even have underclothes, and the way the way the front of his pants stretch snugly around certain parts of his anatomy, he actually wishes he'd remembered to put some in his bag.

Then again, undergarments are hardly a concern in an emergency.

The washroom happens to be situated across the corridor from the narrow galley, and of course, Ambrose is sitting at the small table in there, shoveling food from a ready meal try into his face.

And of course the first place Ambrose's gaze lands when he looks up is the front of Roman's pants.

Ambrose's eyes, those bright blue things, pop open wide at the same time as his mouth drops open. The fork stills halfway to his mouth, half the food falls back down onto the tray. He makes an odd, gust of a noise like someone's forced all the air out of him: "….wow."

Roman clears his throat sharply, annoyed all over again, and deliberately covers himself with his bag.

_Wow?_

Ambrose immediately lowers his head back over the tray, and shovels in another bite of stringy meat. "Need a better holster for your weapon," he says. "Looks like it's about to fall out."

"Excuse me?" Roman asks dangerously.

Without looking up, Ambrose points toward Roman's groin again. "Your blaster is about to fall out. Not your, uh, other…weapon. You know. That one looks like it's pretty well-contained."

Oh, Roman ignores that last.

He ignores it _completely_.

By _blaster, he_ discovers, Ambrose actually meant Roman's blaster, which had slipped out of its holster and was hanging out of the open side of the emergency bag. With an impatient hand, he pushes it back in and locks the compartment. "When my body armor is done cleaning," he says curtly, "I need to hook it up to a terminal to run some diagnostics. Do you have a spare one?"

"Cesar2-D2 is a mech droid," Ambrose says, swallowing his food. "He's pretty handy with all that tech stuff."

"This is pretty delicate," Roman says.

"If nothin' else," Ambrose shrugs, glancing up at Roman's face, "you can use him as the terminal. Fix it yourself if you're worried about it. He'll show you where the tools are."

At last, a sensible plan. Roman nods his approval. "I'd appreciate that. For the time being, I'm gonna get some rest. I've had a long day."

"I could tell." Ambrose finishes the last of his meal, drops the tray and fork into a recycler unit, and scrubs his face with a hand. "'M gonna wash up myself and head back to the cockpit. If you can't find Cesartoo when you wake up, come see me and I'll get him for you."

This is more like it. Captain Ambrose acting like a captain, and not some leering leech. Roman inclines his head again. "I'll do that."

"Oh, and by the way," Ambrose adds, climbing to his feet, "nice weapon."

Now, Roman almost smiles. "Thank you. I had it custom-built."

Before he heads off down the corridor, Ambrose shoots him a sly little grin. "Yeah, that was a nice weapon, too."

With that, he disappears in the direction of the cockpit, leaving Roman to stare after him, bag clutched tightly in front of his pants, dumbfounded.

 _…wow_.

Before this journey is over, Roman's pretty sure he's gonna wind up punching that guy.

Probably more than once.

* * *

When Roman sits down on the edge of the narrow bunk, the day's events catch up to him all at once.

It was just a ship - a thing - and his father would no doubt have chided him for the pang of loss that hits him, the wave of sadness that bows his head, the grief that raises a lump in his throat.

It was just a ship, but it was his, bought and paid-for through his own sweat and determination. Not something he'd had handed to him, like so many thought, but something he'd worked for. Something he'd made a home for himself in, a haven away from the all the doubts and insecurities and naysayers that had seemed to follow his every footstep once he'd begun to make a name for himself.

It was just a ship, but his own pride and carelessness had lost it for him.

And that is a bitter pill.

He won't shed a tear over metal and circuitry, but that doesn't stop the guilt, the anger.

The need to set this right by bringing AJ Styles down.

Fatigue creeps up on him while he's wallowing, thick and heavy and dark, and when that tide comes in, he lets it wash over him, lies back, lets it carry him away.

He sleeps for nearly sixteen hours.

If there are dreams, he does not remember them.

Never does, much.


	3. The Journey (II)

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** III. The Journey (II)

"Why did you let me sleep that long?" are the first annoyed words out of Roman's mouth when he stomps into the cockpit.

It'd been an electric jolt to the system when he'd snapped awake in a musty, unfamiliar bunk room to find over fifteen hours had flown past while he'd been asleep. Grogginess from oversleep and his body's deep, bruised ache had quickly given way to coiled anger when he'd realized just how little time he had left to attempt repairs on his body armor.

He'd ignored his muscles' protests and the hunger gnawing on the insides of his ribs in favor of marching into the washroom to grab his armor out of the washer unit. With the debris gone off of it, he could see how badly grit-blasted it all was, the once-gleaming armor plates scratched and dull, the leather scuffed, the connective fabric along the sides worn through in a couple small places.

The pants had fared better than his vest, so those he'd pulled back on.

He would have fought the tight pants back on even if there'd been holes in them; he wasn't about to head up to this ship's cockpit - or be around her captain - with anything less than full armor covering…certain parts of his anatomy.

As if he could help it that the only other pair of pants he owned to his name right now didn't leave much to the imagination.

_"…wow."_

He'd left his sleeveless shirt on, though, jammed his feet into his boots, and stomped off to this junk heap's cockpit with his vest in hand, intending to give the captain a piece of his mind for not waking him up hours ago.

Said captain, slouched back in the pilot's chair with his hands laced together behind his head, swivels away from the front viewer screen, eyes obviously traveling down before making their way up to Roman's face. Doesn't even have the grace to look fazed when he drawls, "You didn't tell me you wanted a wake-up call."

Ambrose had shaved, Roman notices for _no good reason_. Ambrose had shaved and he'd put on slightly-less-grungy clothes: a long-sleeved off-white shirt, open at the throat and a little dirty at the cuffs; open black vest; dark blue pants; knee-high black boots.

Roman growls at himself to snap out of it - _So what if he cleans up well?_ \- and makes his way over to sit in the co-pilot's seat. "I told you I wanted to fix my armor," he bites out, trying to use his tone to impress the urgency of the situation. "It should have been pretty obvious I'd need time to do that."

Still, Ambrose doesn't look concerned. He swivels back around forward, and a lazy hand flicks out toward a comm unit overhead. "Hey, Cesartoo, will you come up to the cockpit? Our guest is ready for you to work on his body armor." That done, he tucks his hand back behind his head. "Still seven hours to go, your Highness. 'S plenty of time. Besides that," he adds, giving Roman another once-over, "as beat-tired as you looked when you dragged your carcass onto my ship, I figured you could use the rest."

It's pretty bland as statements go, so Roman lets it pass in favor of turning to watch hyperspace blur by in its blacks, whites, and blues. "Seven hours, you said?"

"Just over that."

"Twenty-three hours," Roman says, doing the math in his head. "Usually takes me twenty-six hours to make that run."

Ambrose's cheek dimples with a smug smile. "With a standard hyperdrive, sure. I told you I got a fast ship."

Roman ignores that, squints at flickering instrument panel in front of him, tries to think: Styles' ship is slower than Roman's was. Not by a lot - not enough that they stand a chance to catch him with his six-hour head start, but making up three or four hours of that will definitely help. That, and there's a good chance that Styles will assume that Roman went down with his ship, and he won't be in any huge hurry to leave after he makes his drop-off on Endor.

Maybe, but it's better than that sinking feeling that Styles had slipped through his fingers.

Not that he tells Ambrose that.

The last thing he's about to do is give this obnoxious Nerf-herder a reason to be even more smug.

"-you know," a thin, metallic voice suddenly drifts in from the corridor. Seth-3PO. "But nobody wants to listen to me."

It's followed by a quick series of staccato electronic beeps.

"Wh-! _How dare you!_ " Seth-3PO splutters from the cockpit's doorway, harsh and _offended_. Roman had no idea a droid could sound like that. "There is no rod jammed up my rear hatch, thank you. I don't know why I even talk to you!"

The domed little mech droid rolls into the cockpit behind him, chortling in its odd electronic way.

Ambrose snickers himself and swivels lazily back around. "'Cuz the ship's computer is too dumb for you, and you know it. C'mon. You'd hate it if Cesartoo didn't talk to you."

"I would _not_ ," Seth-3PO says primly, clunking over to stand at the back of the cockpit. "My circuits would stop feeling like they were being assaulted. He's just like _you,_ Captain Ambrose - thinks he's a comedian when he's not even remotely funny."

Cesar2-D2 beeps something that makes Ambrose bark a laugh and makes Seth-3PO squawk so indignantly that even Roman, who doesn't know and doesn't want to know what's happening, finds himself biting back a smile.

A touch on his arm brings his attention around to Ambrose, who indicates a little screen on his instrument panel, where the words, " _You're the one I caught 'assaulting' your own circuits with that rod up your rear hatch, Seth,_ " are displayed in plain white text. " _You looked like you were enjoying it._ "

"Childish," Roman scoffs, even as he can feel his mouth twitching.

Ambrose's bright smile says he's not fooled a bit, but for once he doesn't press. "Should probably work on fixing up your vest, huh?" he says, resuming his forward-facing slouch, shaggy hair falling into his eyes. "'Cuz we're so short on time, an' all. Show Cesartoo. He'll help."

Roman looks over at the stout can of a mech droid, who chirps in what sounds like a friendly way at him. The little display screen in front of where Roman's sitting displays, " _I can run whatever diagnostics you need. I just need to see the interface._ "

Putting his misgivings aside for the time being, Roman finds the interface port on the inside of the armor and holds it up. "Here," he says. "Take a look."

* * *

Six hours, one hot meal, and so much electronic beeping Roman's pretty sure he'll hear it in his sleep later, the little droid proclaims the armor, " _As good as we can make it_ ," and tells Roman he can put it on.

There's still a list half as long as Roman's arm of parts he'll need to replace when he has a chance, but between himself and Cesartoo, they manage to restore some of the vest's functionality. While the deflector mode works only intermittently, they do at least manage to patch up the body temperature regulator. It's messy and probably won't hold together that well in a strenuous firefight, but it'll keep together probably long enough for him to finish the job.

It fits as snugly as it always does, like a second skin, and it powers up straight away like it's supposed to after he closes the upper latch.

With his gauntlets back in place and his boots snug and secure around his calves, everything finally feels right. "This armor's saved my life more times than I can count," he tells Cesartoo as he hits the calibration button. There's a quiet hum and a familiar faint hiss as the parts that can come to life do. "Hopefully it'll keep on doing that. Thank you."

They're alone in the lounge area, having been kicked out of the cockpit hours ago by the captain, who'd claimed he needed to "talk strategy" with Seth-3PO. There's plenty of room out here for him to walk around, stretch out, and settle back into the way the armor moves like it's part of him.

Cesartoo chirps from the lounge's table, rocking side to side on his legs. On the display behind him, it says, " _My pleasure. That's a very impressive design. I wish I had the parts to actually fix it._ "

"You did enough," Roman assures him. "Better than I could on my own. Think I'm gonna head up. We should be getting close by now."

There's an answering beep, but Roman doesn't bother to read the translation on the display. Instead, he ducks into the bunk room long enough to gather up and repack all of his things, carefully double-checking the remainder of his money and his other supplies are where he left them. Once he's satisfied with all that, he straps his blaster back around his waist, slips his back-up into his boot, and loads his grenades into the secure carriers at his sides.

Bag in hand, he heads up to the cockpit, alert and aware, and in better spirits than he'd gone up there earlier this morning.

_Ready._

Up in the cockpit, Ambrose is swiveling gently side to side in his chair, and frowning down at whatever he's reading in his lap, the ball of one thumb rolling across his lower lip.

Roman bites back the urge to say make a rude comment about not guessing Ambrose could read. Ambrose's obnoxious behavior aside, the flight hasn't been that bad. The helpful mech droid and the part where the ship is actually fast enough that he might be able to catch Styles after all, that's enough to earn the captain a little leniency.

Plus, it's rude to disturb someone who looks that focused. Roman has better manners than that.

When Roman drops down into the co-pilot's chair, though, Ambrose gives him a quick double-take, mouth quirking into a faint smile. "Got ya all fixed up, then?"

"Temporarily, at least," Roman nods, ignoring the smile altogether. "Don't have all the parts we need, but your droid worked around it."

"'S good," Ambrose says, slipping his reader into a pouch beside his chair. "Yeah, he's a lot of the reason I'm able to keep this thing flying. I'm terrible with tech stuff. All thumbs. I just fly the ship. Handy having a mech droid onboard."

"So that's why you've got him," Roman says. Makes sense. "What about the other one? Interpreter?"

"That, protocol, strategy. Mostly keeps me from doing anything that'll start a war. Tries to, anyway. There was that one time on…uh, well." Ambrose clears his throat. "Never mind. Wasn't my fault. Don't listen to Seth-3PO. He's full of it."

"I see." Roman inclines his head. "I'm curious about something, actually."

He pretends he doesn't see the way Ambrose's eyes light up at that. Like he's happy Roman's showing interest. That's ridiculous. "What's that?"

"Your droids," Roman says. "They're both Imperial models. So I'm wondering how a smuggler got his hands on them."

"I didn't steal 'em," Ambrose says defensively. "There was this weird old dude down at that cantina in Tatooine one day, right? Huge dude. Eyes were two different colors. Had those droids with them. Ben something. Kenobi? _Kane_ obi? I dunno. I just remember there was another dude flicking a lighter, and this dude couldn't look away from it. Then he told me I had to take the droids. So I did. I never really asked why." He frowns down at his console. "I don't know why I didn't. Guess because it didn't seem important at the time?"

"You ever try to find out where they came from?" Roman questions. That's…odd. Very odd.

And that name - _Kaneobi? Kenobi?_ \- sounds familiar for some reason. He can't put his finger on why, exactly, but it's ringing some kind of bell.

Ambrose, for his part, just shakes his head. "Their memories were wiped before I got them, anyway. They didn't even know how they got on Tatooine. My guess was they probably got left behind when the Empire sent all those Storm Troopers down to the planet last year. I dunno. Like I said, wasn't really important."

"Some stranger gives you two Imperial droids, and finding out why isn't important?" Roman asks, trying not to sound as incredulous as he feels. "Hmm."

It's not his problem, but that's _beyond_ strange.

"It's a protocol droid and a mech droid," Ambrose points out, looking down at his console again. "Not like the Empire doesn't have thousands more like 'em. They're low-level workers, and I've never heard of anybody looking for those, so I doubt anybody cares. Not like other Imperial droids haven't been sold on the black market, either, so…"

Which is true. These Outer Ring territories are full of old droids scavenged from the Empire, so this isn't exactly a unique situation, but still.

_Still._

There's _something_.

Before he can answer, though, Ambrose says, "We're about thirty minutes out, so I guess maybe I should ask - what exactly am I looking for here? You meeting someone? Am I setting you down somewhere? What's the plan?"

"We're looking for a ship," Roman replies, shifting to stop his blaster digging into his hip, "either in orbit or down on the planet. It's a modified A-wing fighter. I don't know where it'll be, exactly, or whether there'll be another ship. There might. I won't know exactly how I want to proceed until we're there."

Ambrose absorbs that quietly, and nods. "So, we're wingin' it, in other words."

"Unfortunately, yes," Roman admits. "I don't really have a plan, other than find my bounty."

That earns him that cornerwise grin and, "Lucky for you, I'm an expert at wingin' it."

"We're doomed," Seth-3PO, master of good timing, says from behind them.

Roman doesn't smile, but he kind of wants to at the way Ambrose's eyes widen in mock-hurt. "See if I carry _you_ on my back out of a blaster fight next time, then, Golden _rod_."

"You're usually the reason we get _into_ those fights."

" _Hey_! I'm not that bad!"

Seth-3PO huffs on his way back to the spot he'd been standing earlier. "I have a list. Would you like to hear my list? Would you like me to list all the times you started those fights? Because I would be happy to list them for you, Captain. I would love to list them for you. Shall I recite my list for you?"

"Shut up, 3PO," Ambrose grumbles. "I'm _good_ at this."

"I'm in here trouble, aren't I?" Roman muses aloud to no one in particular.

"You have no idea," the protocol droid says, and behind him, Cesar2-D2 titters.

" _Hey_!" Ambrose protests. "Come on! I am! Trust me. It'll be fine."

Roman covers his eyes.

* * *

Things fall silent for the last thirty minutes of the flight, with Captain Ambrose sulking in the pilot's chair like some sort of scruffy overgrown pup.

It's a welcome change from the leering and the innuendos and the cockiness.

If he wasn't so focused on Styles and the mission ahead, Roman might have even found it funny.

_Maybe._

"Buckle up," Ambrose announces to everyone in the cockpit. "Coming out of hyperspace in thirty seconds." He sits forward suddenly, sharp concentration chasing everything else out of his expression while the two droids activate the magnets in their feet and Roman straps himself into the co-pilot's seat.

If going into hyperspace is like being stretched out, coming back into regular space is like running into a wall and being crushed.

It's always the worst part.

Roman closes his eyes tightly against pressure that feels like it wants to cave in his chest. Steels himself. It's like there's a blobby Hutt laying on him, keeping him from breathing, from being able to open his mouth, from being able to do anything.

But with the same kind of inner-ear popping that happens once they're normalized in hyperspace, the pressure disappears and everything snaps back to normal again.

Except:

"Uhm…"

At the confused sound from Ambrose, Roman opens his eyes and, yeah, there's the familiar blue and green of Endor, a mostly-uninhabited forest planet way out in the back end of nowhere.

It's just that there's a whole bunch of ships between them and the planet for some reason, which…

…indeed, "uhm" is probably a good reaction, come to think of it.

Ambrose is blinking at them like he's not even sure what he's looking at. "I thought you said there'd only be one ship."

"That's what I said," Roman says. There are close to twenty ships in their general vicinity, some battered X-wing fighters, some ancient A-wings, and, off in the distance, a handful of freighters that look like they're orbiting the planet.

"That's not what we're looking at, though."

"No, it's not."

"What are we looking at here?"

Roman looks over at the captain. "I have no idea."


	4. Firefight (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Firefight

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** IV: Firefight (I)

Eventually, Ambrose's tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "Think I recognize a few of those ships," he says, squinting forward. "Do you? Recognize any of them? Is one of these your bounty?"

The reminder is enough to pull Roman's attention to the front viewer screen, to the collection of battled-scarred fighters and antique freighters that are scattered out in space ahead of them like carelessly-flung children's toys. Off to the left, near the planet, he spots a small knot of half a dozen A-wing fighters, but they're too far away for him to be able to make out the markings.

"I don't know," he admits. "We'd need to get closer to those A-Wings-"

An alarm wails suddenly, obnoxious and droning, cutting him off mid-thought. A flickering light on the instrument panel bathes Ambrose's face in red light. "We're not going anywhere," he says grimly, smashing a button to make the light stop. "We got four ships incoming and they're locked on."

Out the right viewer window, Roman sees them: four battered gray-and-red X-Wing fighters on fast approach. Dread grips his spine in its icy fist. "Can we outrun them?"

"I-"

" _Ambrose?_ " a woman's staticky voice breaks in over the ship's audio system, husky and heavy with an accent Roman doesn't recognize. _"I'd recognize that old junkheap anywhere. What are you doin' in this end of nowhere?_ "

Ambrose toggles a button on the instrument panel to open the communication channel. "You didn't call her a junkheap when she was your ship, Becks," he says, mouth quirking. "Still bitter ya lost her, huh?"

" _I wasn't talking about the ship, ya pile of scrap,_ " the accented voice replies. It's warm with familiarity. Roman can practically hear the smile in it, and he's not sure how he feels about that. " _Although now ya mention it, I'm a_ _mazed she's even intact. Why are you out here_?"

Ambrose glances at Roman, and says, smoothly, "'M actually on my way to Rattatak, but my hyperdrive's kicking funny, and Cesartoo suggested we drop out for a bit so he could tune it up. What's going on here?"

Outside, out in the cold black of space, the four X-Wings all spread out right in front of the Millennium Falcon, their laser cannons all aimed right at where Roman and Dean are sitting.

" _Nothing you need to concern yourself with_ ," the woman answers. Less warmly now. More like a military commander's voice now. " _Our sensors are showing there's a second human in there with ya. Pick yourself up a new co-pilot?_ "

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," Ambrose says, matching her cool tone for cool tone.

" _You best be on your way, then_ ," the woman tells them in that same stern commander's voice. " _Don't come back this way, Dean. My friends are willing to let you go this time as a favor to me, but it won't happen twice. Next time we'll shoot first and ask questions later._ " There's a pause, and, softer, " _I don't want my ship destroyed._ "

A muscle in Ambrose's jaw ticks. "She's mine, Becks. I won her fair and square. We're going."

Roman opens his mouth to protest, but stops when Ambrose holds up a shushing hand, eyes glued to the four X-wing ships still hovering weapons-out right in front of them.

" _Good choice_ ," the woman tells him, tone warmed right back up. " _Next time we're both on Bespin, you owe me a drink_."

"…uh-huh." Ambrose hits the button to close the communication channel, and lets out a quiet breath. "I gotta get us outta here."

" _Why?_ " Roman demands.

"Because four X-Wing ships will vaporize us if we don't," Ambrose snaps, pointing at the front viewer. "At this range, they'll have us blown to bits before I could even _think_ about going up to the gun turrets to fire back. I don't know about you, but 'vaporized' is not a state I want to be in right now."

"For once we're in complete agreement, Captain," Seth-3PO puts in from his side of the cockpit. It's immediately followed by a little twitter that sounds oddly like, "Yep," from Cesar2-D2.

Roman had completely forgotten they were there.

But they're not wrong: with four armed ships close enough Roman can practically see their pilots' nose hairs, fighting free is not an option. Trying to fly past them isn't an option, either, because behind the line of X-wings are the freighters and the A-wings.

One ship versus all those won't stand a chance.

As Ambrose guides the _Millennium Falcon_ away from the X-Wing blockade, all four little ships fall into a formation right behind them. That red alarm light begins to flash on Ambrose's console again. "They're probably gonna follow us all the way to Rattatak," he says through his teeth. "And they got weapons locked on, still. Great."

"Nice of them to give us an escort," Roman mutters, knocking his fist against the metal edge of his seat. "They Rebellion, do you think?"

"Don't know," Ambrose answers.

"Most likely," Seth-3PO also answers. "From what I heard-"

" _Never mind_ ," Ambrose suddenly cuts in, swiveling to shoot the gold droid a hard look. "Don't know anything for sure, and we're not gonna speculate. We don't do that."

"Oh, _don't_ we, Captain Gossip?" Seth-3PO says primly. "I remember you spent almost half a day just this week sitting around talking about Captain Ziggler's affair with that Bothan woman-"

" _Seth_!" Ambrose yelps, bright and exasperated and sheepish. "We were talking about where to get spare parts. Not my fault if those other guys wanted to talk about who Ziggler was…" He sneaks a look over at Roman. "The point is I dunno what was goin' on back there and I don't wanna know."

Roman shakes his head. "It was just a question, Ambrose. I don't really care one way or the other. Just here to do a job."

Ambrose's eyes narrow. "If your bounty's on one of those ships back there-"

"I know."

The job had two parts: hunt down Styles and recover or destroy the computer module that Styles stole.

The module is some heavily-encrypted thing that Styles somehow managed to sneak right out from under the Emperor's nose. According to the Emperor, there's no way that anyone could decrypt the module - assuming they could even get it to operate (apparently there's some kind of mechanism that'll prevent it from working on on-Imperial equipment), so Emperor Heyman didn't really care if it was destroyed or if Roman brought it back.

Styles, on the other hand, Emperor Heyman wants alive.

Doesn't look like that's gonna be happening anytime soon.

And the odds are good that by the time he does manage to find Styles, that module is going to be somewhere else. Finding a single computer module is going to be like trying to find one particular needle in a whole galaxy full of them.

It's all he can do not to punch the console.

* * *

The X-Wings stay right on their tail - no matter how much Ambrose speeds up.

After fifteen minutes of moody, tense silence in which all Roman does is chase his thoughts in circles, he gives up and looks over at Ambrose, who himself is glaring off out the front view screen. The two droids drifted off to the back at some point, leaving the cockpit eerily still and uncomfortably quiet.

It's too quiet, so Roman huffs out an annoyed sigh. "You knew her. That woman back there."

Ambrose looks over, assessing blue eyes narrowed and a thoughtful tilt to his head. "Yeah."

"Who is she?"

"Don't ask."

"I'm asking," Roman says bluntly. "We got five more hours of flight time here, and I'd rather do more than sit here kicking myself because I couldn't get the job done back on Tatooine. I'm not a spy. Since I don't have a plan and I can't make one until we get to Rattatak, and since shooting things and beating things up isn't an option right now, talking will have to do."

"You tell me what happened back on Tatooine, then," Ambrose says in what's a clear challenge. "To your ship."

"Blown out of space." Roman wants to flinch away from the harsh sound of it, but holds steady. "My bounty lured me into an ambush. I thought his ship was disabled. It wasn't."

"Ouch," Ambrose winces. "How did you even _survive_?"

"I ejected right before that happened."

"And you were chasing one of the ships we saw behind us."

"There's a person and an object I need to retrieve. I think they're both back there."

Ambrose fiddles with something on his console panel. "There's a port city at Rattatak. It's like Mos Eisley. You should be able to find a ship back into the core, if you want. Or I could drop you off somewhere along the line. I got cargo to deliver on the way to Coruscant. Anywhere that way you'd want to go, I could take you. But I hope you understand - I don't wanna get tangled up some Empire-Rebellion thing. I'm just a guy tryina make a living. Whoever hired you and whatever they hired you for? I don't know and I don't wanna know."

Roman studies Ambrose's profile for a moment or two, thinking. "That's fair," he finally says. Maybe he even respects that, a little. It's honest. "We'll figure it out when we get to Rattatak. I hate running, but I don't see a way to get at my bounty that doesn't wind up with me getting a second ship blown up around me today. Rather not do that. I don't think my armor could take it."

"Right," Ambrose snorts. "Your armor."

"Well, I'd hate for your ship to get blown up, too."

"'Preciate that." Ambrose's dimples reappear, much more pronounced now that he's shaved. More dangerous for that, too, especially with the mischief in his eyes. "That's almost nice. She might even forgive you for insulting her earlier."

"She likes me just fine," Roman says, finally letting himself smile back. Just a little. "So the woman back there. Becks? Who is she?"

"Becky," Ambrose says. He cards his fingers through his hair, sending it in half a dozen directions. "She's another smuggler. A rival of mine, I guess you could say. This was her ship 'til I won it off her in a card game a few years ago."

"Just a rival?" Roman asks, and for some reason it sounds sharp to him.

Ambrose goes sly, the corner of his mouth pulling up and his eyes narrowing. "Well, I mean, we've had our fair share of _close encounters_ , if ya know what I mean. In the past. Not lately, though," he adds, with an easy shrug. "She's got a full-time co-pilot these days. Unlike me. What about you? Guy like you, bet you don't have any trouble filling your bunk."

"I'm too busy working to worry about finding bedmates," Roman says. It's true enough, although it raises Ambrose's eyebrows. "In the past, I never had trouble finding anyone," he feels compelled to throw out there. "And I wouldn't have trouble now if I wanted to, I'm sure. _If_ I wanted to. Which I _don't_."

It's very warm in the cockpit all of a sudden, and - were the seats always this close together?

"Oh, you definitely wouldn't have trouble with that, believe me," Ambrose says, sucking on a cuticle. His tongue darts out along the side of his thumb for just a second, a flash of pink. "In fact-"

Of course an alarm goes off right then.

Straight out of a cliche, but Roman's grateful for it, just for the way it snaps Ambrose's attention back to the console. "What the…? The X-Wings are pulling off. They're turning around. My scanner's showing a Star Destroyer just dropped out of hyperspace behind us. Hang on. Bringing us about." The Falcon suddenly dives down and flips back upright, now facing the other way.

Right in front of them, a large gray spear-shaped Imperial Star Destroyer is flying off toward Endor.

The X-Wing fighters look like flies next to it.

And suddenly, as they watch, a couple of laser cannons on the Star Destroyer open fire. In the blink of an eye, two of the X-Wings are pulverized, exploding in a shower of white light. The other X-Wing ships dips and dodge the hail of red laser bolts that light up space around them.

"Hang on!" Ambrose suddenly snaps. "We got incoming."

The _Falcon_ dives again, fast and hard enough to make Roman's stomach roll, but as it does, Roman sees a whole lot of laser bolts sail right past them and fade into the nothingness beyond them.

Ambrose's eyes seem to be darting frantically at ten things at all once, but his hands are steady on the ship's steering controls. He brings the ship around hard to the right, dives down sharply to dodge another burst of laser fire, and flies them right under the belly of the massive Star Destroyer.

They don't take a single hit.

Roman spends the whole time with a death grip on the co-pilot seat's arms, fighting the nausea from all the unexpected flipping and rolling. "What are you doing?" he demands when he realizes they're flying in the same direction as the Star Destroyer. "We need to get away."

"Course they're on is taking 'em right to Endor," Ambrose says, eyes glued to his sensors. "They're tryina sneak up. We gotta warn Becks and everybody to clear off.  Otherwise, it'll be a massacre."

"Are you out of your mind?!" Roman snaps. That is the worst idea he has ever heard. "They're shooting at us."

They _were_ , anyway; here, hovering under the Star Destroyer, it seems relatively safe. Nothing is firing at them.

"We can outrun 'em," Ambrose says. He flips a couple switches on his console and adds, grimly, "All four of those X-Wings are gone, Roman. Long-range comm is jammed. I don't know if they had a chance to send out a warning. We can make it to Endor and be gone before this big hunka ship gets there. I just - I need to warn them. It's more than just Becks. I recognized a few of those ships."

"Wait," Roman says, forcing himself to calm down. "Open a channel to the Star Destroyer."

Ambrose peers over at him. "Why?"

"Just do it," Roman commands him. If he tells them who he is and what he's doing, hopefully that'll convince the captain of the Star Destroyer to let them go.

After another long look, Ambrose taps a couple buttons on his console. "Can't," he says shortly. "Those channels are blocked."

Roman's stomach sinks.

"Hang on," Ambrose tells him. Firm. Resolute. Roman's pretty sure he'd have better luck convincing fire to freeze than he would of changing the captain's mind here. "I'm gonna drop away from the Star Destroyer here, and we're gonna go full burn. I don't think they're as well-armed down here. We should be able to get clear before they can get a lock."

"If you get us killed, Ambrose," Roman says, "I will find you in the afterlife and I will kick your ass from here to kingdom come."

Ambrose shoots hims a manic, gleaming grin. "Noted. Hang on."

And Roman Reigns closes his eyes and hangs on.


	5. FIrefight (II)

**The Phenomenal Menace**  
V. Firefight (II)

If the jump into hyperspace is like being squeezed, going full burn at sub-light speeds is about light being kicked in the chest. Most hyperspace engines have compensators that take the worst of the compression away, but sub-light engines across the board lack that technology.

They're built for short-range travel, and any first-year pilot knows they're not built to go from a near standstill directly to a full burn.

Of course, most first-year pilots aren't trying to outrun an Imperial Star Destroyer in a ship that's maybe one five-hundredth of its size, either.

Which is possibly the worst idea in the history of ideas, but there isn't much Roman can do about that now, not after Ambrose snaps out a warning to the two droids to lock themselves in, and starts counting down from three.

Roman's not much of a praying man, but he sends up a silent, _Please don't let this crazy idiot kill me, Lady_ , just before said crazy idiot's countdown hits one and they're both slammed backward into their seats hard enough to rattle Roman's brain inside his skull.

His fingers almost claw into the chair's steel arms, he's got such a death grip locked in while the foreboding gray belly of the wedge-shaped Star Destroyer blurs by.

They're almost clear when the _Falcon_ suddenly shudders.

Ambrose swears colorfully. "We got company!" he snaps. "Roman, get up to the turret. Center-ship. Take the upper one. We're gonna have to fight this one out, after all."

"The-?" The ship pitches hard to the left, throwing Roman against his chair with near-bruising force. "Hold it steady, then, Ambrose!"

"They're right on our tail," Ambrose snaps back. "Four TIE-fighters. Seth!" he barks. "Get up here-"

"I'm right here, Captain," the gold droid says from the doorway. "Here I was thinking we'd go a week without-"

"Can it," Ambrose cuts him off. "Go shoot some ships."

Roman, halfway out of his chair, looks around at Ambrose. "You're letting a _droid_ -"

"I'm quite skilled, _thank you_ ," Seth-3PO says huffily. He's already on his way out the door. "It was an upgrade to my programming. Follow me."

"Hurry up!" Ambrose growls. His eyes are darting between the instrument panel and the viewer screen so quickly it's amazing he's not dizzy. "I dunno how long I can keep 'em off!"

Even as he says that, the ship does this sickening downward dive that nearly sends Roman tumbling into the front of the cockpit. Red laser fire jets right by them, and suddenly Roman gets the urgency.

He staggers off after Seth-3PO, who's mincing along in his ungainly way around toward a ladder in the center of the ship. The ladder extends up and down a tube that barely looks big enough for a man to fit inside.

"Assuming we survive, I'll need help back up," Seth-3PO tells Roman. "I can only make it down." And saying this, the stiff-limbed droid leans into the tube, grabs the sides of the ladder tightly, and steps out. But instead of climbing down, he moves both feet so they're straddling the outsides of ladder and slides down to the bottom of the tube. He lands with a heavy, metallic _thunk_ in down in a pod that has a chair and some controls in it.

It's a squeeze for Roman to climb into the upper turret - the tube is even narrower than it looks, and he scrapes his shoulders on the way - but once he's up in the turret proper, it's a lot better. As with the bottom turret, there's a chair, a targeting computer, and a set of stick controls what Roman can now see is a set of quadlasers - big laser cannons with four barrels.

Heavy-duty weaponry for a smuggling ship. It's better than the weapons Roman had on his own.

Weaponry he's glad to see, too.

Battle thrill suddenly coursing through him, he wastes no time jumping into chair and fitting the comm unit over his ear. When he uses the stick controls to turn the laser cannons to one side, the chair follows so he's always facing whatever he's shooting at.

When he spots the four black TIE-fighters racing up behind them, he grins: this is more his speed.

Shooting back at those damn Imperial bugs at least gives him the hope that he'll make it through this.

And if not, he'll still go down fighting.

He opens fire happily when the targeting computer in front of him flashes to indicate he's got a lock, but just as he fire, Ambrose rolls to the side to avoid all the fire coming at them from the TIE-Fighters.

One of those stray shots hits the _Falcon_ somewhere toward the bottom, making the whole ship shake, and drawing an alarmed, "They're gettin' too close!" out of Ambrose. "I'm gonna slow down real fast, see if we can't get behind them. When we do, get 'em! Strap in and brace yourselves!"

"Will do, Captain," Seth-3PO says crisply, with none of his huffiness.

"Got it!" Roman echoes, swiveling around so the cannons are facing forward.

The plan nearly doesn't work, though: slowing that fast has the opposite effect of speeding up in that Roman's thrown violently forward against the restraint straps, and his arm jerking right into the cannons' stick controls, skewing his aim forty-five degrees the wrong way.

_Nearly._

But Ambrose smoothly pilots the Falcon right up on the TIE-Fighters' rear ends, and Seth-3PO immediately fires off a volley that blows one apart. Roman squares up his own laser cannons and fires off a dozen shots in quick succession, a tight cluster aimed right at one of the fighters' engines.

It explodes in a shower of sparks, and, in a stroke of amazing luck, a big chunk of it careens off and smashes into the one that had been flying to its right. And as Roman's excitedly pumping his fist when that fighter explodes, Ambrose flies right up behind the last one, just as neat as can be, and Seth-3PO shoots it down. "That's all of them," the droid says over the comm. "I suggest you hurry, Captain. That Star Destroyer is moving up awfully-"

Even as he says that, space lights up with laser fire around them.

Ambrose dives and dodges the worst of it, but something still slams into them hard enough to make the whole ship groan.

Roman cranes around to look through the viewer window, and yeah, that big Star Destroyer is getting way too close for comfort - close enough it might actually jab the spear-point of its nose up the Falcon's engine compartment.

"Ambrose!" Roman calls out, alarmed.

"We're fine, we're fine," Ambrose replies. Clipped. Irritable. "Well, not fine, but it's not major damage. Clipped the hull of a cargo bay. It's sealed off. We're fine. I'm making the jump to full burn now. We'll try to outrun them."

And that's all the warning Roman gets before he's slammed backward into his seat - again.

* * *

Once shipboard gravity stabilizes, and Roman feels less like he's going to pop, he climbs down out of the turret.

Cesar2-D2 is waiting for him on the main deck with a length of cable.

Between the two of them, they manage to hoist the heavier-than-he-looks Seth-3PO out of the bottom turret - albeit so clumsily that he can practically feel the droid's contempt once they get him set down on the main decking.

"Oh, don't mind me," Seth-3PO huffs. "I'm just made of metal that _permanently_ dents, unlike you who are made of skin that will actually heal. Don't trouble yourself to be careful my account. And _you_ ," he adds, lightly whacking Cesar2-D2 on top of his domed head, "you little hussy, get away from me. You've had your probe in another port socket today, and I don't even want to _know_ what programming errors and viruses you've picked up from it."

Cesar2-D2 twitters something Roman doesn't understand, but whatever it is, it makes Seth-3PO swear probably a dozen different languages.

Roman leaves the two droids to their bickering, and heads on into the cockpit, where Ambrose is sitting up and alert in the pilot's seat, hands on the ship's steering controls and his eyes glued to the console.

"Nice shootin' back there," he drawls as Roman slips into the co-pilot's seat.

"Thank you," Roman grunts. "I'd say the same about your flying, but I think I left some teeth behind. Quadlasers, huh? Wouldn't have expected to see those on a-"

"Don't call her a junkheap."

"-ship like this," Roman finishes smoothly, locking in the seat's restraints. "How long 'til we get back to Endor?"

"'Bout eight minutes," Ambrose says. "We've got some good distance between us and the Destroyer, but we're only gonna have about two minutes to warn everybody and clear out ourselves." He shoots Roman a sideways look. "Why did you want me to open a comm to that Star Destroyer, exactly? Are they friends of yours? Are we about to head back and find a slaughter?"

"I don't know if we are or not," Roman admits. "I don't know what the Empire is doing out this far."

"Really." Ambrose swivels his chair to face Roman's, a skeptical eyebrow raised. "So you workin' for 'em or what?"

"That's…" _classified_. Which, Roman realizes, is basically like saying admitting as much. "I take work wherever I get it. This job I'm on, it came a high-ranking Empire official. High enough," he adds, "that I thought if I could get in touch with the Star Destroyer's captain, I'd get them to stop shooting at us."

Piercing blue eyes narrow in on Roman's face. "Nice to have friends in high places, huh?"

Roman bristles at Ambrose's disdain. "I don't _work_ for the Empire. I collect bounties for them from time to time the way I do private bounties. It's all the same to me. Work is work. Just like it is for you 'freight haulers' out here. Anything comes your way, you'll do it. Just because you deal with private citizens, and I sometimes take work from the Empire - it doesn't give you any kind of moral high ground. Unlike you, I'm not a criminal. I don't smuggle illegal goods. I'm on the right side of the law. So spare me your judgment. Just fly your ship, and try not to get us killed."

"So basically," Ambrose says, and the ship lurches a little to the left when he jerks his hands away from the steering controls, "if those comm channels hadn't been blocked, they probably would have dragged my ship into one of their cargo holds, arrested me, and gone on to kill everyone, anyway. While you got a ride home."

"I helped you take out those TIE-Fighters, didn't I?" Roman points out. "I'm along for this ride. Which you should be piloting."

Ambrose rolls his eyes, but swivels back around grab the steering controls again. "We're fine. And you're along for the ride because you don't have a choice."

"No, I don't," Roman says. It's true. "The Star Destroyer's not an option now. I'd probably get arrested for trying to beat the captain, anyway. Shooting at _me_? Not acceptable." He waits for that to sink in with the scruffy captain, and once he's pretty sure it has, he goes on, "If I can pick out which ship belongs to my bounty, we can follow him out of here. I'll pay for it," he adds, before Ambrose can even say it. "Don't worry about that."

"All right," is all Ambrose says.

"Is it?" Roman questions.

"I reserve the right to shove you out an airlock without a space suit if you try anything, but yeah."

That's more like it. "Fair enough."

He expects there to be more, but Ambrose stays silent for the last couple minutes of the flight, his heel bouncing on the floor and a pensive frown creasing his forehead.

* * *

Endor speeds up to him in its soft blues and greens, and when they're close enough, Roman can see that all the ships were there before are still there now, a loose smattering of them all gathered on one side.

To his lack of surprise, a voice jumps in over their comm before Ambrose has the chance to make the call himself. The woman. Becks. " _Dean, what are you doing back here_ -"

"Becky, there's company about right behind us," Ambrose cuts her off, brisk and urgent. His hands are white-knuckling the steering controls as he guides the Falcon to a relative stop near one of the hovering ships. "Imperial Star Destroyer. One of the big ones. It got your X-Wings. You gotta clear out - now."

While he's staying all this, Roman leans forward to try to pick out Styles' ship, and - there.

It's one of the ones hovering close to the planet, an old A-Wing with a blue P1 - Styles' personal marker - painted on the side.

Excitement swoops through Roman's stomach: _he's here_.

Styles is right _here_ , and close enough that maybe, just maybe, Roman can salvage this disaster of a mission, after all.

"- _did you lead them back here for, Dean?_ " Becks is asking, heatedly. " _Why didn't you just_ -"

"They were coming this way anyway, Becks," Ambrose snaps over her. "And they jammed long-range comms. Stop arguing with me and listen: ya gotta get everybody out of here. They came after us guns-"

"Incoming!" somebody else shouts. "We've got incoming!"

And that is literally all the warning they get before probably two dozen TIE-Fighters swarm in - not from the direction Ambrose and Roman had come, but from the complete opposite.

Not even five seconds later, a wedge-shaped Star Destroyer swoops into view like some giant, unwelcome predatory bird, huge and dark and imposing.

Things go from bad to worse when the Star Destroyer that'd been chasing Roman and Ambrose back here makes its belated appearance in a wash of even more TIE-Fighters.

There have to be four dozen of them out there - a hoard of one-man fighters spreading out like spilled water.

Everything is weirdly still, though, this almost breathless pause while they all hover together waiting to see exactly what's going on here.

For one of the few times in his life, Roman can taste fear in his throat.

It burns like acid, and suddenly he's cold all over.

_Lady,_ he prays silently. _Please, Lady, don't let this be how I go down._

"Get back to the turret," Ambrose says, barely moving his mouth. He's ashy-pale himself, eyes huge, but his hands are relaxed on the Falcon's steering controls. The heel that had been bouncing earlier is still.

"Maybe they're just looking for us to surrender," Roman points out, but even as he says that, he unbuckles his seat's restraints and climbs to his feet. He knows better. He knows what's coming.

One of the Star Destroyers opens fire.

And all hell breaks loose.


	6. Firefight (III)

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** VI. Firefight (III)

Seth-3PO is already in the bottom turret by the time Roman even makes it to the ladder. It's hard to move, the way the ship is pitching and weaving as Ambrose is no doubt dodging insane amounts of laser fire. Roman's nearly knocked over three times on his way, bangs into just about every loose piece of metal he can, whacks his cheek on the ladder, and almost loses his grip when Ambrose dives down suddenly.

It's only stubborn determination that keeps him in place: there's nothing in his head but _I have to survive_.

_I have to._

Survival means _fighting_ , and _fighting_ means pushing through the nausea long enough to get up to the turret.

He throws himself down in the chair, straps in, and grabs the controls.

There's no point in even using the targeting computer at all at this point: there are so many of those little TIE-Fighters buzzing around that the little computer can't even properly display them all. He just starts firing blind, hoping to create some kind of pocket of clear space - his whole field of view is nothing but TIE-fighters - where he'll be able to make use of the tools at hand.

Suddenly, the quadlasers that had seemed like a great weapon not even an hour ago seem small and weak.

There are so many ships.

 _Give me strength, Lady_. _Keep my aim true._

He manages to shoot a couple of the TIE-fighters out of the way, but four more blaze in, firing everything they've got right at where Roman's sitting. No doubt they're trying to take out the _Falcon's_ weapons.

It's only a gut-rolling sideways twist the keeps him from being blown to bits.

"Ambrose, you gotta get out of this!" Roman calls through the 'comm, no little desperate.

" _Working on it! Sit tight!_ " Ambrose snaps, gravel and iron in his voice. And as he says that, he pulls the ship straight up, burns the engines hard enough to whip Roman back into his seat, and rolls around to the right. The _Falcon_ whines in protest, but somehow stays clear of the flashing barrage of red laser lights.

" _You got three straight ahead,_ " Ambrose tells Roman and Seth-3PO. " _Get 'em. Give me some breathing room_."

Roman and Seth-3PO act without hesitation, the pair of them firing off shot after shot at a trio of H-shaped fighters, and blowing all three of them into scrap.

They're right near the planet, and from here Roman has a pretty good view of the battle field.

Probably half of the ships that'd been here before this mess broke out are already gone, and almost all the rest are in huge trouble, either being chased by the giant Star Destroyers or being swarmed by hoards of TIE-Fighters - including Styles.

Styles' A-Wing isn't far from them, but there's no doubt he's in trouble. He's got almost half a dozen of the Imperial fighters around him, all of them firing away.

Roman nearly bursts a blood vessel in his sudden anger: if the Emperor planned to have his military just destroy Styles anyway, why hire a bounty hunter in the first place? Why go to the trouble of threatening Roman personally with some nebulous and terrifying _or else_ if he was just planning to take care of it himself?

It's not right. Roman decides on the spot he's not about to go down that way. "Ambrose," he says through teeth that he has to force open enough to talk, "that ship with the blue P1 on it - that's my bounty's ship. I don't want it destroyed."

" _Got it_ ," Ambrose replies, and to his credit - again - he doesn't hesitate. Apparently he does actually know when to turn it off and when to turn it on. " _We're going in hard. But brace yourselves - there's a Destroyer nearby. This is gonna be pretty dicey. I'll get us as close as I can._ "

And he does just that, bobbing and weaving through a whole field of debris and the seemingly endless pulsing laser fire until they're almost on top of the group of TIE-fighters shooting point-blank at Styles' ship.

Roman toggles the targeting computer and loses himself in the battle: aiming and firing on the interfering Imperial idiots with his mouth pulled into something like a snarl. A four-barrel laser cannon might not be a match for a Star Destroyer, but it cuts the tiny Imperial fighters into ribbons. It takes a lot of effort - the cannons aren't exactly the most nimble things to maneuver, and Roman's sweating pretty heavily from the exertion, but it _works_ and it's worth it.

" _Hey, AJ!_ " Roman hears Ambrose call out over the comm. " _Can you hear me_?"

" _Dean_?" Styles himself answers, coughing. Roman would recognize that softly rolling accent anywhere. " _That your ugly heap out there_?"

" _Hey, that ugly heap just saved you, buddy-boy_ ," Ambrose says, and as he does, he wheels around to bring face another pair of approaching TIE-fighters. Roman and Seth-3PO make quick work out of them, as Ambrose says, " _AJ, can you fly?_ "

" _I'm basically dead here,_ " Styles answers. " _Weapons, hyperdrive - it's done_. _My sublight engines are losing power too fast to do me any good. I got nothin."_

" _You think you can make it down to the planet?_ " Ambrose asks. He's completely no-nonsense about it. " _We'll escort you. Find somewhere to land, and assuming we survive this, we'll come back and pick you up._ "

" _Only one way to find out,_ " Styles says. " _Lead the way_."

Roman pumps his fist, and makes a note to thank Ambrose for his quick thinking. Assuming they survive this, Roman is guaranteed to collect his bounty.

 _If_ they do.

It's a harrowing-as-hell two minute flight: one of the Star Destroyers peels off and charges after them, its huge front cannons firing away. They have enough of a lead that Ambrose is pretty well able to dodge everything, but as that thing gets closer, Roman can hear Ambrose cursing.

Once they're near enough to Endor's outer atmosphere, Ambrose says, " _Go land somewhere, AJ. We'll get this giant beast off your tail._ "

" _Thanks, Dean. I owe you huge_."

Ambrose doesn't answer.

Roman makes another a mental note to ask how those two even know each other later.

But that's later.

For now: _survival._

The battle is far from over.

Ambrose skims Endor's atmosphere like a stone skipping across surface of a pond as he races to lead the Star Destroyer away from Styles' ship. It's a good move, too: atmo like this plays hell with ships' targeting computers - something about the chemicals or something - so most of the Star Destoyer's shots fly by them without hitting them.

Although there are still dozens of TIE-Fighters out there - and several on the way - Roman has just a moment or two to actually take a good look at the battlefield.

It resembles a ship graveyard out there, or a war zone, with so many dead and dying ships hovering in twisted heaps of metal and debris. Set against the cold black of space, it's haunting. Almost every single one of the ships that been here before are either pulverized or in pieces-

" _Becks!_ " Ambrose suddenly yells into his comm. " _Hey, hang in there - we'll be right there!_ "

Without a word of warning, Ambrose peels off out of the atmosphere and burns hard toward one of the last remaining clusters of fighting: three of the ships that'd been here originally, surrounded by probably a dozen fighters, and with the big Star Destroyer breathing down their back.

Along with the one that's breathing down the _Falcon_ 's back.

" _Take 'em out!_ " Ambrose yells at Roman and Seth-3PO. The _Falcon_ shudders when something hits it. " _Take 'em out! Becks! Head down to the planet. Fly under the Destroyer._ "

Roman and Seth-3PO open fire while a pair of scarred and burned ships, also firing, dart off toward the planet, diving low under the one Star Destroyer, and arcing around to avoid the next wave of TIE-fighters ejecting from the sides of the ship.

Ambrose races in right behind them, Seth-3PO and Roman shooting for all they're worth

But suddenly there are so many TIE-Fighters choking up the space around them again that even with Ambrose flying like a madman, the _Falcon_ gets hit - hard.

Hard enough that if Roman hadn't been strapped into the seat, he probably would have been thrown out of it and killed. Hard enough it sends the Falcon into a sickening tailspin, the ship whipping around and around like an out-of-control top for what feels like days until Ambrose is finally able to get it back under control.

" _Cesartoo_!" an urgent Ambrose says. " _Get to the engine room. See if you can fix that stabilizer. Roman, you okay?_ "

Roman swallows back the bile that's risen into his throat. "Yeah," he grunts. "What happened?"

" _Just keep firing. We ain't out of this yet_."

And Roman's entire world narrows down to flashing squares on a computer screen, the red flash of his laser cannons firing, flashing explosions, the ship bouncing and protesting around him, and a green-and-blue planet getting closer and closer to them. He loses count of how many fighters he takes down, loses count of how many times the ship jerks from a glancing blow, loses count of how many times he hears Ambrose swearing over the 'comm.

This is insane.

It's ridiculous.

They're going to die.

They don't die.

The ship bucks and shudders and protests, and there's one point where Roman knows the hull is smashed open because there's some god-awful alarm screeching in the corridors, but by some miracle, they manage to punch down through the planet's atmosphere and drop into its sky in one piece. They have half a dozen fighters right on their heels, and two of them score another hit that sends the Falcon into that crazy spin again.

This time, they don't pull out of it right away.

Instead, they spin and spin and spin, until Roman's ready to pass out from the sheer, awful force of it. His head throbs. His stomach tries to crawl out his throat. His fingers nearly break from the pressure he exerts to keep himself stationary.

Just when he's starting to lose his grip on reality, the Falcon slams out of it the spin. Roman's neck nearly snaps when it does, his whole body whiplashing against the seat. All he can do is slump back in the chair, his head still spinning around him and his body clenched in on itself, ears ringing and his heart thumping so hard in his chest he can barely breathe.

He's so out-of-it dazed, in fact, he doesn't even notice when the Falcon lands.

* * *

"roman?"

"hey roman?"

"roman are you all right?"

Voice.

A voice.

Deep. Raspy. Jagged gravel. Insistent.

"Roman."

"Huh?" Roman clears his throat, blinks his eyes open, looks around.

Tree-lined blue sky through the window, and he's strapped into a chair, and there's a big gun on the other side of the glass, and - huh - they're not moving.

"You alive up there or not, Reigns?" the raspy voice asks. Ambrose's.

With a shaking hand, Roman unstraps his seat's restraint. "I think so."

"Are you all right?"

"I have curds where my brain should be," Roman answers honestly. He winces when he straightens up, hand flying to the back of his neck. A sharp ache travels all the way down his spine. It passes soon enough. "I got whipped around pretty bad, but I think I'm all right. You?"

"About the same," Ambrose answers. He sounds relieved. "Sorry about comin' in all wild like that, but I figured the longer they saw me spinnin', the less apt they would be to follow us down - in case we got all explode-y. Gave me a chance to get away. Kinda. They didn't follow us, and I've powered down completely. Should be a while before anybody picks us up."

That's way too many things all at once, so Roman grunts, "Uh-huh," and carefully begins to climb down out of the turret.

It's only when he's back in the main corridor and standing right across from a worse-for-wear Ambrose - there's a nasty gash over his eyebrow and a little scrape on his chin - that what Ambrose even said penetrates Roman's fog. "They didn't follow us."

"Not just yet," Ambrose says, "but they will. They know we're all down here. Won't be long before this place is crawling with Imperial troops." Either Ambrose doesn't notice he's injured or doesn't care. Roman's not sure if that's a good sign or not. "We're gonna need to find everybody pretty fast before that happens. I wasn't able to get us close to where Becks and company ended up, but we're close to AJ's ship. Figured we could go pick him up, and go find the others. Try to come with a plan for how to get out of here without getting dead."

_Styles._

The mention snaps Roman right to attention, aches and pains shelved to deal with later. "Good idea."

He especially likes the part where they're going to collect Styles.

Ambrose leads Roman and the two droids down the corridor, and out to the exit ramp, which is already open. The two droids are already waiting at the bottom. Like Ambrose - and Roman himself, probably - they're pretty battered, both of them with dents and creases in their metal skin that weren't there before.

"Why are the down there?" Roman asks. "Shouldn't they stay with the ship?"

Trying to navigate a forest with two clumsy droids is going to be next to impossible.

"If we wanna get out of here, we need some parts that we'll have to borrow out of AJ's ship," Ambrose says. There's something stubborn to the set of his jaw that says he's already set on this course of action. "I don't know what I'm looking at, and it's faster to just have Cesartoo come get what he needs. And Seth-3PO's sensors have a longer range, so he'll be able to warn us if anybody's coming sooner."

"They'll slow us down," Roman protests again. They will.

"It'll be fine." On the way down the ramp, Ambrose produces a rag from his pocket and finally wipes the blood off of his face. "Come on."

Roman has no choice but to follow.

The ramp lets them out in a brush-covered clearing that's completely ringed by enormous, towering trees. Some are so big around it'd probably take fifty people holding hands to circle it. Standing in their shadow makes Roman feel small in a way he hasn't since he was a child.

There's sunlight in the clearing, but the rest of the forest is more shade than not, with occasional patches of bright breaking through.

Uneasy all over again, Roman glances over at the Falcon's scruffy captain, who'd thrown on his battered leather jacket and who's now paused to study the damage to the outside of his ship. She's a mess of black scorch-marks, punched-in metal, and a hole bigger than Cesar2-D2 in the lower hull.

Ambrose gives Roman a kind of pensive look. "Let's see if we can cut some metal from AJ's ship to tack over this. Anything'd be better than that, at this point."

AJ. Roman nods, falls into step beside him. "You know him. Styles."

The droids shuffle behind them, the quiet whir of their Seth-3POs stiff joints joining the noisier crunch of Ceaar2-D2's wheels over the terrain to break up the near-oppressive silence.

"Not really," Ambrose eventually answers, heading for the flat gap between a pair of massive trees. "I've had drinks with him a couple times, is all. Heard a lot of things. Thought it was all crap, but if it's true, I guess I'm not all that surprised he ended up on the wrong side of an Imperial official. What did he do?"

"He stole something," Roman says simply. "If I can get that back, that's good, but it's not necessary. I just need to bring him in alive."

"Will he know you when he sees you?"

Roman holds a low-hanging branch out of the way so Seth-3PO can pass, winces away from some kind of flying menace that buzzes past his ear. "Probably. We've never met, but he knew my ship by. Pretty safe bet he knows me, too." He looks down at himself. "I stand out."

A comment that would've gotten him a grin and a leer two hours ago now only earns him a distracted nod, and, "You really do."

It rubs Roman the wrong way. "We got a problem, Ambrose?"

"No problem." Ambrose stops in the shade of a big, needly tree, and turns to regard Roman again. "Just want to be sure we're clear about something: my priority here is finding AJ, getting my ship fixed, and finding everybody else so we can get off this rock. You got a bounty to collect. I understand that, but I want to know right now if you're gonna disappear once you get him, or are you gonna ride it out with the rest of us?"

Roman pauses in front of him, leaving his stance relaxed and open. "Nobody on those Star Destroyers seemed interested in listening, and I'm just as likely to be killed as you are if Imperial troops find us. They don't seem like they want to take prisoners. I stand a lot better chance of keeping me and my bounty alive by helping you, so that's my plan. But if Styles acts up, I won't hesitate to restrain him." He taps a hidden compartment on his belt, which reveals a set of small wrist binders. "So we're clear."

Silence winds its way between them, pulls tight. For all that Roman can see the wheels turning in Ambrose's head, he has no clue what the captain is thinking. He's not sure he likes that very much.

But after a few seconds, Ambrose nods. "I'll hold you to that."

"I'm a man of my word, Ambrose. You have it."

"Good to know." One corner of Ambrose's mouth twitches just then, breaking the tension. "You carry restraints, huh? I'm not even gonna ask."

He sashays away, chuckling.

Roman closes the compartment on his belt. "They're for restraining bounties."

The chuckle becomes a full on laugh. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Roman opens his mouth to say something, but stops when Seth-3PO raises a mechanical hand. "I'd quit now, if I were you. You won't win. He's terrible."

"I think you mean terribly amazing," Ambrose calls back. "Hurry up."

"Are we good, then?" Roman asks, hustling around the giant tree and over a relatively flat patch of ground. "You gonna start trusting me?"

"I don't trust anybody," Ambrose answers as he makes his way around a big, snapped-off stump. "No money in it. But looks like we're headed the same direction, and as long as I feel like that's the case, then we got no problems. Goes both ways. I got no interest in screwing you over." He shoots a cheeky little look over his shoulder. "But screwing you, on the-"

"Stop that," Roman cuts him off, less annoyed than he probably should be. It's obnoxious, but it's a good sign they're back on even ground. He just can't resist adding, "It wouldn't happen.  And even if it did, you wouldn't be the one doing the _piloting_."

Ambrose nearly walks into a low-hanging branch when he does a double-take. Roman snickers, but the scruffy captain recovers way too quickly with a wicked dimpled grin and, "That so? We'll see about that."

"That wasn't a challenge," Roman says. It wasn't.

"Uh-huh."

"It wasn't," Roman insists. He regrets even mentioning it now.

Behind him, Cesar2-D2 beeps something Roman doesn't understand, to which Seth-3PO answers, smugly, "Oh, sooner than that, I think. This should be interesting."

Roman absolutely, positively does not ask.

Maybe if he ignores it, it will go away.

And with that, he pushes the whole conversation and the weird twist in his stomach away, and turns to begin the hunt for AJ Styles.


	7. Endor (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for Styles begins.

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** VII: Endor (I)

_Endor._

It's more and less difficult than Roman expected to navigate the two kilometers between the Falcon and _Phenomenal One_ \- Styles' ship.

Less difficult because there's a fair bit of flat, dirt-covered terrain that the two droids can traverse with relative ease.

More difficult because when the droids can't make it through an area, getting them to an area where they can pass either requires longer detour around, or, in a couple of cases, Ambrose and Roman lifting and carrying two incredibly heavy droids over whatever obstacles are in the way - be it a small creek or a giant downed tree trunk that there's no quick way past.

It's a grueling, sweaty trek, and it isn't helped - at all - by Seth-3PO constantly complaining about what the branches and sap and rocks he seems to keep bumping into are doing to his finish.

"This is not what I was built for, _Captain_ ," he says spitefully. "I was built to assist generals and dignitaries with translation and protocol - not potentially being eaten by something in a forest."

"Well, hey," Ambrose drawls, "maybe if something tries you eat you, you can translate its growls or somethin. Maybe it'll just wanna mate with you instead. I'm sure you'd like it."

Seth-3PO snits in outrage while Roman snickers quietly, and Cesar2-D2 laughs his electronic laugh.

Mostly, though, they make the trek in silence, hiking their way through what feels like an absolutely ancient forest with ears open for signs of predators or other wildlife. Other than a lot of birds flapping around overhead and overabundance of biting bugs buzzing by, there's not much.

Even with having to pause to help the droids every now and again, they still make decent time, at last edging around another another old tree trunk and making their way into a small clearing.

Styles' old A-Wing - Phenomenal One - has come to rest on the far side of that clearing, under a dense canopy of brush and low-hanging branches. From the looks of the snapped tree limbs and crushed bushes everywhere, and judging by the crumpled-up look of the ship itself, it wasn't a landing Styles had much choice about.

_Like me,_ Roman thinks, bitter and satisfied.

Hopefully Styles survived, too.

Ambrose pulls his blaster out of its holster, and glances over at Seth-3PO. "You stay here with Cesartoo. I'll take Roman and go check out AJ's ship. If you see him, holler. Roman," he adds, "you stay behind me. Less chance this gets ugly if it's me he sees first."

That's about the first sensible thing out of Ambrose's mouth. Roman nods and pulls his own blaster out of its holster, and shifts his weight to the balls of his feet.

He follows Ambrose around the edge of the clearing, ducking to avoid some low-hanging branches.

About halfway to the remains of the P1, Ambrose calls out, "You alive, Styles?"

_It won't be this easy_ , Roman has time to think, before a voice drifts out from somewhere near Phenomenal One. "Ambrose? That you?"

"Yep," Ambrose replies. "It's me. What'd you do to your ship?"

"Something you're very familiar with," Styles drawls as he emerges from behind the ship. "Unscheduled emergency landing."

About half a head shorter than Roman (and Ambrose), compact and well-muscled, AJ Styles doesn't really look like much at first brush. He's pretty non-descript: blue eyes and brown hair down to his chin, a beard, plain face with regular human features. Could be any set of hands in any job on any planet.

No doubt Styles likes it that way: easier to get away with things when your looks don't stand out to people.

Roman knows the exact second Styles recognizes him, sees it in the way Styles' eyes widen. Immediately, he begins retreating back toward his ship. " _No._ No, no, no! No, I killed you!" he yells, panicked. "I blew your ship out of orbit back at Tatooine."

"I ejected," Roman says, moving quickly across the clearing, blaster trained on Styles' chest. "You owe me a new ship. Don't run."

But since it _can't_ be that easy, Styles turns and rabbits off through the trees, snapping, "Ambrose, you traitor! When did you sell out to the Empire?"

Ambrose takes off after him like a shot, darting across the clearing and heading into the forest. "I didn't!" he calls back. "I'm not working with him. AJ! Styles! Wait! We don't have time for this! We gotta get off this planet."

As Roman hurries to catch up, he hears Styles yell, "He's Empire! They're hunting me. I stole the plans to this weapon they're gonna use to wipe us all out. It's bigger than anything you ever saw. You can't let him get me, Ambrose."

Up ahead, Ambrose slaps a heavy branch out of his way and darts in between a couple of jagged stumps. "Seth, Cesartoo," he calls into his comm unit, "we found 'im, but he's running. Lock onto us. Try to head him off."

Roman, lumbering around dense cluster of thorny bushes, can't see Styles anymore, but he's pretty sure he can hear him somewhere beyond Ambrose, crashing through the brush and leaves

"AJ, we don't have time for this!" Ambrose tries again. "We gotta get Becky and get off this planet. It's about to be infested with Stormtroopers. We can sort all this out later, all right?" The loose flap of his jacket gets snagged on a branch, momentarily yanking him to a stop. The branch snaps off sharply when he gives it a tug. "Nobody's gonna do anything to you right now. We just need to get away."

There's no answer - not that Roman's expecting one.

Everything he'd read about Styles said the man is a first-rate escape artist. One of the best in the Galaxy. It's why he's been able to forge the kind of career out of thievery he has.

But Ambrose and Roman give chase anyway, moving through underbrush that seems like it's out to get them: sharp-edged leaves slash at their faces and hands, tree roots seem to rise up out of nowhere to try to trip them up, and holes hidden by low ground cover make running fast risky at best.

Roman's lungs begin to burn, and sweat's starting to make his skin burn under his armor, but he doesn't stop.

Can't stop.

_We don't have time for this._

Suddenly, there's a sharp snapping crash and a yelp from somewhere up ahead. Ambrose throws a bewildered look around at Roman, who just picks up his pace.

The crash, it turned out, was Styles.

Who, as Roman discovers when he reaches another small clearing, is swinging upside-down about ten feet off the ground, some kind of crude rope tight around his ankles.

Ambrose draws to a startled stop and barks out a disbelieving laugh. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he pants, arming sweat off his forehead. "Caught in a _snare_?"

Roman, huffing and puffing himself, pauses just long enough to eye the tree Styles is hanging from. It's straight and smooth-trunked. Climbing it to cut Styles down is probably out of the question. "I'll shoot him down," he grunts, aiming his blaster at the rope. "Ambrose, you go try to break his fall."

"Break his…!" Ambrose spins to stare at Roman, blue eyes wide with disbelief. "I'm not gonna catch him! You catch him. You're bigger than I am. More surface area for him to fall on." He unholsters his own blaster. "I'll shoot. I'm a great shot."

"Slightly above-average shot, Captain Ambrose," a prissy metallic voice drifts over. There's a flash of sunlight on gold as Seth-3PO straggles into the clearing. Cesar2-D2 rolls up behind him, chirping. "But I think the more important point is Styles is trying to cut himself down, so whatever you're going to do, you'd better hurry."

Styles has indeed pulled himself upright and is sawing at the rope with a knife.

Ambrose and Roman exchange a look, and in unison raise their blasters and fire.

Both shots hit the rope about a foot above Styles, severing it completely. Styles yelps again and flaps like some kind of giant, uncoordinated bird as he crash lands in a pile of scrub.

Roman doesn't hesitate to haul it over, Ambrose hot on his heels.

They reach the groaning Styles as he's lifting his head, groggy and scraped up. None of Styles' limbs appear to be broken or out of place, so that's something, Roman is relieved to note.

"Finally," Ambrose mutters. He reaches Styles first and hunkers down beside him, blaster pointed right at Styles' forehead. "Don't move."

"Traitor," Styles says. "You're gonna get us all wiped out, Ambrose. You're gonna get yourself wiped out."

"I just want to get off this planet, AJ," is all Ambrose says. There's not much inflection in it. "We need to go."

Styles apparently isn't as out of it as Roman thought, because fast as an uncoiling snake, the guy smashes a rock across Ambrose's temple, sending Ambrose sprawling back on his rear end, blaster flying out of his hand.

Instinctively, Roman's attention goes to the captain, just to make sure he's all right, and that little moment of hesitation allows Styles to fling himself to his feet and dart right past Roman.

Cursing under his breath, Roman moves to follow.

It's Seth-3PO who actually saves the day, stepping right into Styles' path while Styles is looking behind at Roman. Styles crashes right into the droid, and both topple over.

Roman's on them in a flash, grabbing Styles by the scruff of the neck and the back of his ripped jacket and slamming him face down onto the ground. He kneels down, a knee jammed into the small of Styles' back and one of Style's wrists gripped so tight much more pressure would break it. Styles thrashes and struggles anyway, flailing his free hand, but Roman eventually manages to wrangle the restraints on him.

_Finally._

"Let me go!" Styles is snarling. "Man, let me go! Let me go! You're gonna get us all killed!"

"Shut up," Roman grunts, slapping the back of Styles' head. "Ambrose! You alive?"

"Oh, don't mind me," Seth-3PO mutters from behind him.

Roman really doesn't. "Ambrose?" he calls again. Finally he looks around.

And freezes.

Ambrose is alive, all right, and sitting up, a hand at his temple, blood seeping from a wound.

And four fuzzy little creatures pointing crude stone-tipped spears right at him.

Before Roman can even process that plot twist, he feels something cold and stony and sharp touch his own throat.

_Great,_ he thinks, swallowing.

_Just great_.

* * *

Absurdly, Roman's first thought when he looks at the creature holding the spear to his throat is, _They're cute_.

Because they are.

The one closest to him is about four feet tall, round and fuzzy, with pointed ears on top of its head, big brown eyes, kind of a button nose, and a chubby face. It's got some kind of crude leather covering over its head and shoulders, a hole in the middle for its face.

It's also baring its teeth and pointing a spear at him, so there is that.

So are three of its friends.

They're not very big, but even so, the spear tips at his throat feel real sharp. He's not sure he could fight them off in time to avoid getting stabbed.

Or Styles, for that matter, who's gone perfectly still under Roman's knee, eyes wide on the creature that has a spear pointed at his face.

There are actually quite a few of them hanging around, a good dozen or so with spears and rocks around the edges of the little clearing, all of them peering solemnly at Ambrose and Roman with their big, dark eyes.

He doesn't resist when they take his blaster away.

"Um," he says, glancing back at the captain. "Ambrose?"

"Yeah, I don't know, either," Ambrose says, wincing. More blood dribbles down his cheek. Even so, he tries to bat one of the spears away from his throat.

The little creatures rumble and move in closer, the one he'd tried to push away pushes the spear right against the side of his neck. Ambrose immediately holds both empty hands up. "All right, all right. Seth-3PO? Where are you? You think maybe you could try to talk to 'em?"

"Oh, now you remember I'm here," Seth-3PO huffs. "I'm fine, by the way. And you're welcome." The droid sits up and looks around, unblinking gold eyes steady on the fuzzy creatures surrounding him.

The ones nearest him gasp in unison, and begin to chatter back and forth in some quick, incomprehensible language. When Seth-3PO speaks to them, he doesn't sound very sure of himself.

"What'd you say?" Roman asks.

"Hello? I guess," Seth-3PO answers. "I think. It's a pretty primitive dialect."

"But you understand them," Ambrose presses from across the little clearing.

"Of course, Captain," Seth-3PO says. He can't physically roll his eyes, but it sure comes through in his voice. "Six million forms of communication, remember?"

To Roman's complete bewilderment, the creatures closest to Seth-3PO drop to their knees and start bowing to him, chanting softly as they do.

Roman exchanges looks with Ambrose, who looks similarly poleaxed. "What are they doing?"

Seth-3PO chuckles. "Well, apparently they think I'm a god."

"They _what_?" Ambrose splutters.

"I'm a god to them," Seth-3PO says again. "I like them."

Ambrose looks very like a man who'd stepped into an unexpected hole in the ground, startled and unsure exactly what just happened. Since he _can_ roll his eyes, he does. "Well, why don't you use your divine influence and get us outta this?"

Almost all the little creatures are bowing now. Chanting.

"Are you kidding me?" Seth-3PO says, waving his arms at them. He sounds _happy_. "This is amazing! Yes! Yes, I am your god. That's right. That's right."

"Seth!" Ambrose snaps. "We don't have time. Tell them to let us go."

"You don't tell a god what to do," Seth-3PO snits back at him. "For once, you can listen to me, Captain."

Styles twists his head around toward the droid. "We're going to die, you idiot. Make them let us go."

"Now," Roman roars, twitching toward Seth-3PO.

It's a mistake.

Something hard and heavy clubs down over the back of his neck, knocking him right out.

_Again._


	8. Endor (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth-3PO thinks he's a god. The Ewoks are happy to oblige him. Roman, Dean, and AJ are in a hell of a predicament.

**The Phenomenal Menace**  
VIII. Endor (II)

Light and dark chasing each other across his eyelids pulls Roman out of his stupor sometime later, the flickering reminding him of the bonfires he used to attend as a small boy.

He doesn't remember them involving jostling, though, or pain in his wrists and the back of his neck.

Or his body swaying back and forth.

He first thing he sees when he opens his eyes isn't the source of the flickering light, but a log pole about as big around as one of his thighs - a pole, it turns out, his wrists and ankles are tied to so tightly it feels like it's cutting off the circulation. His hands are cold.

At either end of the pole, there's one of the fuzzy little creatures, each with its end on its shoulder.

His back's dangling maybe half a foot off the ground, which is not at all high enough to keep the occasional rock from scraping the back of his armor. Every time it does, he cringes, thinking of all the damage that's probably doing to the already-damaged circuitry

He can't really see anything behind or in front of him, but Ambrose is right next to him, trussed up exactly the same way. But he's completely limp, bloody head lolled back and his mouth hanging open.

It's hard to tell if he's even breathing from this angle.

"Ambrose?" Roman tries, worry sharpening his tone. " _Ambrose! Captain!_ "

Ambrose snorts, starts, jerks against his restraints. His eyes fly open.. "...whuzzit? 'S goin on? We under attack or somethin? Get t'th cannons 'n fire."

"We're not under attack, Captain," Roman says.  It feels like a weight has come off his chest. "We got caught."

"Oh." He twists his head Roman's way, bleary eyes squinting. "Yer tied up. 'S pretty.  Nice. I like it."

Despite himself, despite the situation, Roman chuckles. Just from the relief. It's just the relief. "No, Captain, we got _caught_. Look around you." A chin flick at the fuzzy guys surrounding them. "I think they're taking us somewhere. I can't see the others."

"I know, I know," Ambrose says in that slow, just-woken-up voice. "Wuz jus' sayin' yer pretty all tied up. 'S a real nice sight."

"I see." Roman clears his throat. "Are you okay?"

"M'head hurts. 'N I think 'm tied up, too." As Roman had earlier, Ambrose gives his bonds an experimental tug, but his wrists don't budge against the log pole any more than Roman's had. "Ow.  'M tied up, too. Where's my droids?"

Cesar2-D2 chirps from somewhere behind them. Seth-3PO doesn't answer. Roman shakes his head. "I think Seth-3PO turned traitor on us, Ambrose. Remember? They called him a god. It went to his head."

Ambrose frowns off at nothing.  It looks like he's processing what Roman just told him.  Eventually, he bellows," _Seeeeeth_! Seth-3PO! Where are you?"

The thin, prissy answer drifts back to them: "I'm not speaking to you, _Captain_. All you're going to do is yell at me. You don't yell at gods."

"'M not gonna yell at you," Ambrose calls. "Much. 'M just gonna ask you why you're gonna let us get killed. Why you won't make these furballs let us go. 'Cuz we're gonna die 'f we don't...don't, uh, get off the planet. Or somethin." He glances at Roman, frowning. "'S it, right? We need - we gotta get off the planet? I didn't dream that up?"

"That's right," Roman assures him. "We have two Star Destroyers and a whole lotta Imperial troops looking for us right now. That's why we need to get off the planet."

Seth-3PO doesn't answer.

"It'll be your fault if we all die, Seth-3PO!" Roman tells the darkening sky. "Do you understand that? There are people on this planet we need to help-" he ignores the disbelieving scoff he hears behind him "-and they never did anything to you. But you're gonna let them die for some stupid power trip? You're okay with their blood on your hands?"

"This is not _my_ fault!" Seth-3PO's voice startles several nearby birds out of the trees. "Don't speak to me that way. In fact, just be quiet, period. I don't want to hear it. You don't speak to gods unless they tell you you can speak to them, and I don't want you speaking to me. Don't speak to me."

The fuzzy little guys chatter between themselves, and Styles laughs bitterly. "That's some droid y'got there, Ambrose."

Ambrose, his face as dark as a storm cloud, turns his head as much as he can. "Shut up, AJ."

"It's _your_ fault, you know," Styles tells him. "Traitor."

"I ain't a traitor." Ambrose still has that slurry quality to his words. "I didn't turn on nobody."

"He's a guy who took a job, Styles," Roman says. Why he feels the need to defend Ambrose he couldn't say, but there it is. "I didn't tell him what I was doing until that Star Destroyer was on our tail. He didn't know it was you I was after until the fight back there. Not a traitor. Just a guy at the wrong place at the wrong time. Blame me, if you're gonna blame anyone. Or better yet, blame yourself for creating this whole mess to begin with."

"Blame myself for trying to stay alive? Blame myself for trying to keep the Emperor from closing his fist even tighter around us all that he's already got it? Blame myself for doing the right thing?" Styles' shouting, like Seth-3PO's, sends the fuzzy guys into an uneasy chatter, sends the birds flapping up into the sky again. "I didn't start this, Reigns. The Emperor did when he decided tyranny was the way to go."

Roman opens his mouth to protest, but closes it when he can't think of a good counter.

He's seen signs of it all over in his travels: the increased Stormtrooper presence on all the inner core planets, higher taxes, an air of unease like a lingering fog over almost every port in every city he's visited lately. People aren't happy, that much he knows, and a lot of that stems from things the Emperor is ordering to happen.

All these things he's been aware of, but even so, staying out of it always seemed to be the safest route to go.

Except here he is, dragged right into the middle of it.

"Tell me about this weapon they're building," he says. If he's gonna die here, he might as well find out what he's dying _for_ , at least. What was _so_ important for Styles to steal from the Emperor. "Exactly how big is it?"

(That, and he'll take anything that'll get his mind off the pain in his back and his joints from being carried like a hunk of meat. His wrists especially - which are bearing most of his weight - feel like they're on the verge of breaking.)

Styles takes a while to answer. Probably debating whether or not he even should. In the end, he does. "It's some kind of mobile base, as far as we can tell. It's as big as a moon. Big enough in can house over a million people - crew, soldiers, thousands of TIE-fighters, hundreds of thousands of pilots. Some kind of laser on it, too, that can cut planets apart. It's huge."

"Something they're _gonna_ build?" Ambrose asks. He sounds tired, disgruntled. "Or that they _have_?"

"Something we think they _are_ building," Styles says.

"How do you know?"

"Classified."

Roman rolls his eyes skyward. "You're the bounty they sent me after. They said it didn't matter about whatever you stole. Why is that?"

"What I took was encrypted, and they probably didn't think we can crack it," Styles says. "That, and they probably want to know how I stole it in the first place. Which I ain't telling. That's my secret, and that's goin' with me to the grave. I guess literally, unless that idiot droid lets us go. And even then…"

 _Even then_.

In the distance, the ground rumbles.

_Even then._

* * *

The fuzzy creatures actually live in something like a small village.

There are huts up in the trees, connected by a series of wooden catwalks. The base of the tree they hang Roman's pole beside looks like it has a set of stairs or something carved into the inside. Several of the creatures - including some tiny ones - come out of it, peering at Roman and the others with big, curious eyes.

The ones carrying him take him over to something on the ground that looks distressingly like a fire pit, a big ring of rocks with sooty black coals all inside the bottom. At both ends of the pit are tall Y-shaped poles, and these are what his captors settle the ends of his pole into. He's hanging over a cold fire pit like an animal on a roasting spit.

From where he's hanging, he can see Ambrose and Styles similarly hung up.

Meanwhile, they four carrying Seth-3PO take him up to the base of the biggest tree and set him down. Many of the other fuzzy creatures made their way out of the tree and fell to their knees around the chair, chanting at the preening golden droid again.

Roman's never wanted to rip circuitry out of a piece of tech so bad in his life.

The sky's just getting darker and darker.

"3PO, make them let us go!" Ambrose hollers over the creatures' chanting. "We've got to go."

"I can't," Seth-3PO says primly. "They're planning to give me the feast I deserve. The feast of a _god_. I'm not about to stop them."

Apparently Ambrose's brains are working again because he looks around pointedly and says, "Do you not see what's going on here, you overpowered tin can? They're about to cook us."

Seth-3PO shoots up off of his makeshift throne, squawking in outrage. "Overpowered-! Don't speak to me again."

From somewhere behind them, Cesar2-D2 chirps something that has Seth-3PO sounding like he's about to spit sparks.

"That's it! That's _it_! I'm done with you. The Ewoks can cook you all. I don't care."

"You don't care that you're about to doom the entire galaxy to slavery?" This from a furious Styles. "You don't care that if you kill us, you're essentially going to be responsible for _billions_ of deaths."

"You don't care that Stormtroopers are probably gonna show up here and wipe out this little village?" Roman says quietly, ignoring the way the fuzzy guys - the Ewoks - are stacking logs underneath him.

"Hey, yeah," Ambrose says. "How are you gonna be a god if you don't have subjects to rule? You can't protect them. Their spears and their rocks won't stand a chance against blasters and speeders."

 _That_ seems to get Seth-3POs attention. "They can't!"

"They _will_." Ambrose's voice is bright with urgency. "They'll wipe out their village and probably you, too. If you let us go, we can lead them away from here. That way you can stay and play god."

"Well, it's no fun if I can't lord it over you," Seth-3PO says huffily. "But - fine. Apologize."

Predictably, Ambrose balks. "For _what_?"

Roman takes a big, deep breath, and again tries to ignore the two Ewoks approaching with lit torches. "Ambrose, just apologize."

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Ambrose argues, just as stubborn as can be. If Roman's hands were free, he'd have punched him. Repeatedly. "I got nothing to apologize _for_. Let us _go_."

Seth-3PO leans forward in his chair, waving one stiff arm. "You called me an overpowered tin can. Apologize. Tell me I'm a god, and then I'll let you go."

" _No_ -"

"Just _do_ it, Ambrose!" Roman snaps at the same time as Styles yells, "Do it, you idiot! They're about to _light me on fire_."

"All right, all right, all right," Ambrose yells back. "Fine. Seth, I'm sorry I called you an overpowered tin can. You're… You… You'eragod."

"What was that?" Seth-3PO asked. No question he'd be grinning if his face wasn't just a solid piece of metal. "I didn't hear that. Say it again. Slower."

"You're. A. God," Ambrose grinds through his teeth. "Let us go."

"Please."

"Please," Ambrose echoes.

The taller of the two Ewoks beside Roman bends down to light the logs under him, but pauses at a sharp command from Seth-3PO. The droid says something in a wooden-sounding language, gesturing in his odd, uncoordinated way.

Whatever he says works, because the torch-bearers all back away from the fire pit. After a confused moment of discussion between Seth-3PO and the largest of the Ewoks, half a dozen of them bring out crude stone knives and cut the bindings around Roman's - and he assume everyone else's - wrists and ankles.

He falls onto the logs below with an unceremonious crash, but pays no mind to the barking pain in his tailbone or the deadness in his wrists and ankles. On instinct and adrenaline alone, he scrambles up and stumbles over to the firepit where Styles had just crash-landed.

Styles' wrists are still bound under him, thankfully, so there's that.

Still plenty of fire in his eyes though; Roman can feel the heat of the man's stare. "Don't even think about running, Styles."

"Go throw yourself in a Sarlac pit," Styles spits.

"Both of you cut it out," Ambrose calls over. He's managed to sit up, and looks like he's trying to shake feeling back into his hands. "Cesartoo, you all right?"

The little domed droid twitters an affirmative, but follows that up with something that sounds like a question.

"'M fine," Ambrose grunts. He doesn't look fine. The parts of his face that aren't blood-streaked are ashy-pale. When he fights to his feet, he's wobbly as a toddler. "'S go. Scan the area, Cesartoo. See if you can pick anything up. Get out of my way," he bites out at the three little guys standing in front of him. "Get us our weapons back, Seth."

"Captain," Seth says from his throne. "I really think you should sit-"

" _Now_ ," Ambrose barks. For the first time, he's _Captain_ Ambrose, angry authority in a glare that could have cut Seth-3PO in half. "You've already wasted enough of our time here, _droid_. Get us our weapons, and we'll leave you here to play god. Reigns, Styles, on your feet. Get ready to move out."

He stands staring up into the sky while Seth-3PO says something to the Ewok next to him. Roman hauls Styles up to his feet, doing his best not to pay attention to the painful pins and needles stabbing his feet, the ache in his hips and shoulders.

A timid little brown Ewok carries Roman's blaster and his other weapons over to him, setting them down at his feet and backing away, big amber eyes never leaving Roman's face. The Ewok makes a startled little noise and skitters away when Roman bends down to pick up his things.

Ambrose is already making his way out of the village, much steadier on his feet as he shoves his way through the throng of Ewoks and ducks under a couple of low-hanging branches. Cesar2-D2 follows right on his heels.

Roman points his blaster right into the middle of Styles' back and says, "Go."

"Do you even know where you're going, Captain?" Seth-3PO calls after them, a petulant voice coming from beside the giant tree. "You're not in any condition to _walk_. At least wipe your face."

"Yeah, really," Styles mutters.

Roman finds himself reluctantly agreeing. Blood in the air is a good way to attract predators.

But Ambrose doesn't answer.

All around them, the day grows darker.


	9. Endor (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ewoks have one more surprise. We meet a couple more characters.

**The Phenomenal Menace**  
IX. Endor (III)

They make it approximately fifteen steps away from the village when Cesar2-D2 erupts into an excited series of beeps.

Ambrose jerks to a stop, hand flung out to steady himself on a tree.

Once Roman pauses, he hears it too:

Rustling in the trees. More of the sounds like the Ewoks' chatter. A woman's angry voice: "Let us _go_!"

A familiar one. "Becks?" Ambrose immediately calls out. "That you out there?"

There's a startled pause, and, "Dean?"

"Yeah." Roman can practically feel the relief in Ambrose's voice. "Yeah, it's me. AJ's here, too. We're here."

"Becky, _run_!" Styles yells like a complete fool. "It's a trap."

Roman clamps a hand over Styles' mouth, squeezes. "Shut _up_."

Styles tries to struggle. Roman holds firm, and probably a lot harder than he needs to. As bone-weary and sore as he is, he just lacks anything like patience for this.

"We _know_ it's a trap, AJ," Becky answers, and just a moment later, more of the Ewoks emerge, with two women bound by their wrists and ankles to poles like Roman and the others had just been - one with a shock of deep orange hair and the other with long darkish pink hair. Hard to tell in the low light, but the pink-haired one looks familiar. "They already got us."

Ambrose shoots an icy look at Seth-3PO over one shoulder. "Let. Them. Go. _Now_."

Seth-3PO hastily says something to the Ewoks standing beside him. A couple of them waddle out, waving their arms at the ones carrying Becky and the other woman. There's some quick chatter, and more stone knives come out. Both of the women are freed before Ambrose has a chance to get any angrier, and Roman is silently thankful for that.

The captain looks like he's about to pass out on his feet, but there's not much Roman can do about it, what with trying to keep Styles from running off. For a small guy, Styles is strong. He twists in Roman's grip like a snake, very nearly managing to squirm away when Roman's attention briefly wanders to what the Ewoks are doing.

And as soon as the orange-haired woman gets a look at Roman and Styles, her eyes widen and she jerks a couple of steps their way. "AJ!"

The other woman, whom Roman finally recognizes as another bounty hunter named Sasha Dustlighter or Stormlighter, brushes dirt off herself and turns. Her expression closes down immediately when she sees him, turning lethal. In a way he thinks he knows what it's like to be frozen in Carbonite. "Reigns," she says, hand going for a weapon that, thankfully, is not on her hip. "Styles said he killed you."

"Hey!" Ambrose cuts in from where he's still leaning on a tree, still with that captain authority despite looking like he's on the verge of collapsing. "Sasha, Becky - ice it. It's fine. _He's_ fine. He just - AJ kept runnin' off. Casuin' all these extra headaches for us." Two fingers point at his temple. "Literally. We don't have time. We gotta get back to my ship, get it fixed up, and get off the planet somehow. We'll sort through the rest of this later. Is there anyone else left out there?"

The orange-haired woman - Becky - turns to him. "No. You're _hurt_!"

"I'm _fine_ ," Ambrose says waspishly. He pushes away from the tree, wobbles a step and flings out a hand to catch himself. "Looks worse 'n it is."

"My arse," Becky snaps at him, storming over. She's a formidable woman, and the way her long coat flaps around her as she walks just adds to that effect. "What happened?"

"Bring him back into the village," Seth-3PO calls over from the edge of the trees. "They - these Ewoks - they have - they can… They can at least put a wrapping on it before you go. Clean him up."

"The _who_?" Becky demands. A couple of the Ewoks, who've been quietly watching them, chatter at her. Her frown clears. "Oh."

"What about _that_?" Sasha demands, stabbing a couple fingers Roman's way.

"I'm gonna help you get off the planet," Roman says for himself. "They tried to kill me, too. I ain't exactly their biggest fan right now. It's like Ambrose said, let's just out of here - however we can - and then we'll figure it out."

Sasha, lean and very strong, crosses the few steps between them. "Or we just shoot you dead and leave you here," she says, and she's fierce enough that Roman actually swallows. "That sounds like a plan to me. You're the one who probably brought them all here."

"No, I didn't," Roman tells her. "I didn't know they were coming. Ambrose was just gonna drop me off at Rattatak and leave. We ran into them on our way. We came back to warn you they were coming."

"You'd all be dead if we _hadn't_ ," Ambrose says.

"We're the only ones who _survived_!" Becky yells, loud enough that the Ewoks around them jump. A heavy silence falls. Becky takes a breath. "Nobody else made it out and we're stuck on this planet with a whole Imperial Army probably bearin' down on us, Dean, so thanks for nothin'."

"Hey!" Ambrose protests. "We're not the ones who shot them down! We're not the ones who shot _you_ down. We didn't bring this on you. As I recall, I'm the one who got you down onto the planet."

"You're still alive," Roman puts in. "For now, we all are. And if we're gonna stay that way, the bickering needs to stop. We don't have time for it."

"If we keep standin' here, we're gonna die," Ambrose says grimly, pushing away from the tree again. "Roman's coming with us. That's the end of it. If nothing else, we might be able to use him to get out of here. He's Empire."

"I'm _not_ ," Roman protests.

Ambrose, bloods and swaying, glances at him. "They think you are, then. We might be able to use that. Just…" He lowers his head. "Just...come on."

"Not until you get cleaned up, at least," Becky says, catching hold of Dean's arm. She's a captain, too, and it shows in her tone. "Let's go back to this village. These Ewoks or whatever they are. See what they can do for you. Sasha get our weapons. Keep an eye on Reigns. AJ, _don't run_. We'll figure this out, like Dean said."

"We don't have time, Becks," Ambrose starts to protest.

"If we're out in the trees and there are predators around," Roman says, carefully pulling his hand away from Styles' mouth, "they'll smell your blood, Ambrose. We don't need the extra trouble. Listen to her. Let's get you fixed up as much as we can, like she said, and then we can figure out what to do next."

Ambrose looks over, hard-eyed and clearly not well.

To Roman's relief, he gives a stiff little nod and turns back for the Ewoks' village, leaving the rest of them to follow in his wake.

* * *

With Seth-3PO's help, Becky and a couple of timid Ewoks - the same two little brown ones who'd chattered at Becky earlier - help get a grouchy Ambrose patched up.

He's seated on the on the droid-god's throne, face all pinched and puckered while Becky carefully dabs at the head wound with a strip of damp cloth that Ewok healer - or clan leader or whatever he is - hands over.

Ambroes's grouchy must be contagious because Roman, standing at the edge of the village with Styles, finds himself glowering at them all. He doesn't know if it's because Becky is taking too long or because she's not doing as thorough a job as Roman himself would do or if it's just because she's so touchy-feely with Ambrose. She's all over him, her hands drifting between his jaw and his shoulder, squeezing light, and she's got this warm little smile like this is something she's done before.

She's too close to him.

Roman doesn't like it. He doesn't like that he doesn't like it, either. It shouldn't matter, but somehow it does.

He doesn't like it any more than he likes the looks Sasha's giving him.

Their paths have crossed a few times over the years, usually on jobs where they've both gone after the same bounty. She's gotten about half of them; the last one especially grinds on him because she somehow managed to sneak a prisoner right off of his ship - while he was still on it. To this day, he had no idea how she pulled that off.

And right now, she's got a very large dagger in hand and is scraping the flat of it across her palm. She's deadly with that thing. Rumor has it she can throw it across a crowded room and hit her mark. He knows she's just itching to make his head her mark right now.

But he's got his blaster aimed dead-center of Styles' back, and a piece of the cord the Ewoks used to lash them all to the poles earlier wrapped around Styles' throat. He's not choking Styles, but it's pulled tight enough Styles can't move much without choking himself.

"I didn't know you were Rebel," Roman finally says to Sasha, just to break the ice.

"I didn't know you were Empire scum," she sneers. "I didn't know you supported tyranny."

"I don't," he says, ignoring Styles' scoff. "I'm being paid to do a job, so I'm doing it."

Sasha eyes him flatly. "You're still working for them. So you support what they're doing."

"I don't," he says again. He decides not to bother trying to talk to her anymore, and focuses his attention on what's going on around him.

The Ewoks are busy preparing actual food, some kind of animals roasting on a couple of spits near the big tree. Most of the ones not cooking are either watching from the wooden bridges overhead or clustered in a timid little knot near where Seth-3PO is standing.

Torches burn at the edges of the village, night-dark having firmly settled in.

Every now and again, the ground rumbles like a volcano about to spew. There's nothing natural about it, as Cesar2-D2's uneasy twittering can attest.

"How are we gonna get out of here?" he asks, slapping at a bug that tries to bite him.

"I'm _fine_ , Becky," Ambrose says suddenly. "I'm fine. It's good enough. We don't have time for better." When he stands up, he's clean of the blood, at least, and has a thick bandage covering his temple. He doesn't seem quite as woozy as he had. "It's gonna be hard to do this in the dark, but I think we need to. It'll be easier to avoid line-of-sight that way. And Cesartoo can scramble their scanners over a short distance. They shouldn't pick us up."

"Are you out of your mind?" Becky demands. "This terrain at dark? Even if there aren't predators out there, we'll be lucky if we don't break legs. And we don't even know where we're going. We don't have a _plan_. We can't just go fumblin' around out there."

"Cesartoo can get us back to the ship no problem," Ambrose says. He's grim again. Roman never thought he'd miss the leering and innuendos, but he does. Especially when Ambrose turns hard, cool eyes Roman's way. "He can light the path for us, too. We won't be fumbling around in the dark. And if worse comes to worse, we can use Roman here to get us outta this."

"How?" Roman asks.

"You got Styles. Maybe you can demand that they let you use the _Falcon_ to get off the planet. Maybe it's your reward for catching Styles. We can sneak on right before takeoff. Blow by them when they're not expecting it. Something like that. I don't know. I'm bad at plans."

"Got that right," Seth-3PO mutters from behind him.

"Shut up, droid," Ambrose says through his teeth. He doesn't look around. "If anyone else has anything better, I'm all ears."

"What if they don't let him take the _Falcon_?" Becky asks.

Sasha puts her dagger away. "What if it's been destroyed?"

"Then maybe we steal one of their shuttles. I'm sure they've got 'em on the ground here somewhere. We have the element of surprise on our side. I don't know." Ambrose touches the bandage on his forehead, winces. "AJ, you're better at escaping this kind of thing than I am. What do you think?"

"If it were me, I'd steal one of their shuttles right out from under their damn noses," Styles drawls, sounding calm as anything even with a cord around his throat. "They don't have as many guards around those as they would the _Falcon_. If we're goin' in the dark, we got an advantage. But before we go anywhere, just shoot Reigns and leave his carcass here. We don't need the trouble. He's gonna be trouble."

Roman presses the baster harder into Styles' back and says to Ambrose, "I'm not. You have my word. I just wanna get off this planet in one piece. Whatever I can do to help that, I will."

Ambrose inclines his head. "All right. Let's go."

"You're just gonna take his word?" Styles demands. "Ambrose, you _idiot_. First your stupid droid almost gets us roasted alive, and now you're gonna let this bounty hunter get us killed."

"We'll see," Ambrose says, turning to lead the way to the edge of the villag. "Cesartoo, stay with me. Activate your scrambler and start scanning. Keep an eye on the terrain. Gimme a low light - just enough to see by. I don't want anybody falling in a hole. Let's move."

Cesar2-D2 beeps in agreement and shines a low white light out of the little eye on the front of his dome.  He rolls a little ways ahead, Ambrose moving with him and Becky and Sasha right on his heels.

"You heard him," Roman grunts, shoving Styles forward toward the dirt path. "Move it."

"Don't _push_ me," Styles grumbles. "You get me killed, I'll hunt you down from the afterlife and make you miserable for eternity, Reigns. You understand?"

"Just _go_." Roman lets the cord fall away from Styles' throat, but twists his hand into the back of Styles' vest. It's awkward to walk that way; his legs are longer and Styles seems bound and determined to trip them up. Roman's half-tempted to just throw Styles over a shoulder and carry him, but that'll probably just slow them down even more. "The more you fight me, the more likely we're gonna get caught. Don't be stupid."

"Eat a bolt," Syles mutters back, but he settles into something that's just below a jog.

"Captain Ambrose, _wait_!" Seth-3PO calls in his weird nasal voice. He's moved to stand at the edge of the village, a shining gold figure flanked by a couple of little Ewoks. "What about me?"

Ambrose's cold answer drifts back from between a couple trees. "Stay here and play god, droid. It's what you wanted."

They're still close enough that Roman can hear Seth-3PO's annoyed huff. "It was just a joke."

There's no answer from Ambrose.

"Captain?" Seth-3PO tries again. "Captain! Please. It was just a joke. Don't leave me here. How will I recharge?"

Cesar2-D2 beeps something that just _sounds_ rude.

Seth-3PO squawks. "You-! How dare you! I would never insert a tree branch up my…! That's _disgusting_."

That twittering little laugh again. Cesar2-D2 beeps something else, something that's growing fainter.

Somewhere behind him, Roman hears a flurry of whiring servos and mutters. "Wait for me," Seth-3PO says. "Don't leave me here!"

"Keep _quiet_ , ya buncha rusty bolts," Styles mutters. "You'll have the whole Empire down on our heads."

And right as he says that, the ground gives off that ominous distant rumble. The trees shake with it. Some leaves fall down around them.

"I got a bad feeling about this," Roman says quietly.

"Yeah," Styles says. "Yeah, me too."


	10. Endor (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight in the woods. A snake in the grass.

**The Phenomenal Menace**  
X. Endor (IV)

The thing about traveling in the dark over unfamiliar terrain is it's _difficult_. Even with Cesar2-D2 providing just enough light to see by, Roman still finds himself bumping into trees and tripping over roots and, once, almost falling with Styles when the ground makes an unexpected dip downward. Within a matter of minutes, he's scratched by sharp needles and bumps hits his head on a low-hanging branch.

Styles grumbles under his breath the whole way. It's annoying, but Roman is too busy trying not to fall to call him down for it.

Up ahead, Roman sees Ambrose and Becky walking together and talking about something. He eyes them sourly, wishing he was close enough to hear them. Wishing, too, that he didn't have to babysit Styles like this. It'd be nice to go up there and make sure for himself Ambrose is functional.

Sasha's right behind them, but every now and again she shoots these sharp looks Roman's way like she expects him to disappear into the trees with Styles. Or like she wants him to so she's got an excuse to put that dagger to use.

Cesartoo suddenly beeps, quiet and urgent, and Ambrose's head snaps up. "We got incoming Stormtroopers," he calls out. "Speeder bikes. Get off the path and get down. Hide. Hurry."

As he says this, Roman hears the unmistakable hum of Imperial bikes - small, nimble vehicles that can maneuver through trees and over rough terrain a lot faster that the Stormtroopers can walk - approaching.

They're plunged into complete darkness as Cesar2-D2 shuts off the light, and left to stumble off the path. Roman drags Stlyes off the path, the pair of them crashing through brush and stumbling through the undergrowth until they reach the base of an enormous tree. It's got some big, gnarled roots that have room for both of them to fit behind, which is where they head, Roman folding himself awkwardly to fit into the tight space, knees practically around his ears. Styles, being smaller, doesn't have the trouble.

"You need to take the restraints off me," Styles breathes into Roman's ear. "I can't fight like this."

"You'd just run." Roman barely moves his lips.

"I ain't about to abandon Becky 'n Sasha," Styles whispers. "I ain't runnin. Take em off."

"Don't make me regret this," Roman says with as much quiet menace as he can muster. It's a lot.

Styles isn't fazed. He just turns and bends up so Roman can pull the restraints off of him.

At the sound of the approaching speeder bikes, they both freeze, neither of them daring to breathe. The bikes slow, and Roman hears a muffled voice say almost directly behind them, "It should be right here, but the scanners aren't picking up anything. Are yours?"

Roman gets the worst urge to sneeze right about then and lowers his head a little to rub the end of his nose. _Don't do it_ , he thinks. _Lady, don't let me blow this_.

"Not in the immediate area," a second voice says from their right. The tickling in Roman's nose grows even worse, like he's inhaled dust. He pinches it shut. "Although I'm picking up life forms ahead. Approximately fifty. I think they're indigenous. They're not what we're looking for. There's nothing here."

Water springs to Roman's eyes. He concentrates on breathing in and out silently through his mouth, willing his body not to betray them.

"No, we're wasting our time," the first voice says. "Let's head back to base."

"Copy," says the second voice. "I'll follow."

The speeder bikes actually make a pass around the giant tree, and for one awful moment, Roman's sure they've been spotted. He swears he sees the white-armored Stormtroopers overhead slow down, but he's wrong. They loop around the tree and speed off the way they'd come, white headlights cutting through the dark.

Roman gives it a slow twenty count, and finally lets go of his nose. Only to cover it up again when he starts to sneeze, repeatedly.

"Glad you waited 'til they were gone to do that," Styles mutters.

"They-" another sneeze, a soft explosion behind his hands "-gone?"

"Looks like," Styles says, just as Ambrose calls, "We're clear. Let's go."

Must have been something about the tree, Roman decides, because as soon as he and Styles get a few steps clear of it, the sneezes slow to a few, and then stop. Of course. His eyes are watering so bad he can barely see.

He follows Styles to the front of the group, where Ambrose is still walking beside Becky and Sasha. Cesar2-D2 is up ahead of them by a step, and he can hear Seth-3PO whirring along behind them.

Ambrose catches Roman's eye and drifts back a step to walk with him. "You lettin' AJ go?"

"For now," Roman says. "Easier to travel this way. We'll need him if there's a fight."

"Was gonna say that."

"How's your head?" Roman asks. In the weak light, he thinks he can see blood soaking into the edge of the bandage on the left side.

"Hurts," Ambrose grunts.

"How much further?"

Ambrose swipes irritably at a branch that's about at eye-level. "We're close. Ewok settlement was closer to the _Falcon_ than I realized. Cesartoo says we're gonna start runnin' into more Stormtroopers pretty soon. They got some overhead patrols we gotta watch for. And-" He shoots a look over his shoulder, and nearly falls over when he does a double-take. "What the-? Seth-3PO what are you _doing_? What are they doing here?"

Roman turns to look. They all do. He can see the dark figure of Seh-3PO bringing up the rear by maybe half a dozen paces. But he's flanked on either side by a couple of the little Ewoks.

"This is Jamie and Joey, Captain Ambrose," Seth-3PO says primly. "They're guarding their god."

"They - no," Ambrose says, wheeling around and marching straight back into the droid. " _No_ , Seth. You tell them to go back to their village. We don't need 'em gettin' in the way. Or hurt."

"They're _my_ guards and they'll stay if I want them to," Seth-3PO huffs. "I'll take care of them. If-"

Ceasar2-D2 suddenly whistles from the front of the pack, and they're all forced to scatter again into the trees as a shuttle flies by overhead, its big spotlight shining down around the area where they'd all been walking just moments before. Roman, hidden alone inside a small log finds himself praying like he hasn't since he wasn't a small child.

The shuttle continues on its way, dragging its glaring spotlight with it.

Ambrose, who'd taken refuge not far from Roman, is the first out and waves at Roman to follow. "I think they know we're here. We gotta move. Seth, either send those Ewoks away or go back with them yourself."

He doesn't stop to see if Seth-3PO complies or not, just takes off walking through the trees, pushing past Styles and joining Becky at the front.

They come to a place Roman remembers that they'd had to carry both of the droids over on the way, but Cesar2-D2 leads them on a slightly winding path around them, which actually necessitates Sasha cutting out some brush to clear a path. Roman still ends up getting scratched pretty bad by the rough end of a branch.

He's aware, suddenly, of everything. Battle sense. The sound of their feet over the needle-carpeted ground. The swish of the trees. The droids' mechanical whirring. Cesar2-D2's soft chirping. Sounds like he's trying to comfort himself. Beyond that: lights in the distance, an artificial halo on the horizon. No doubt from the Stormtroopers.

They're close.

Cesar2-D2 rolls to a stop again and chirps urgently at Ambrose.

Ambrose hunkers down beside him, and turns to look at everyone. "The _Falcon_ is just over this little hill," he translates, his gravelly voice pitched low enough that it forces everyone to huddle around. "Cesartoo says he picked up about a dozen Stormtroopers guarding it. But that's it. He says the next closest he can detect are another eight minutes' march beyond that. That clearing I dropped into was pretty small, so that's probably why. We got five of us, plus the droids and surprise on our side."

"What are you thinkin'?" Becky asks. "Splitin' up and each of us takin' a few out?"

"'S the way I'd do it," Styles drawls. "If we all coordinated our shooting, it wouldn't give 'em time to call for backup. Let's get a little closer 'n see how they're arranged. If they don't have any other shuttles around, this is gonna be our best way. I need a weapon. I don't got mine."

"I got 'em," Ambrose replies, pulling a pair of blasters out of the waistband of his pants. He passes them over to a Styles who examines them as best he can in the dark. Ambrose rises, a hand on Cesar2-D2's head. "You come with me. Seth, you too. It - wait. Seth, I told you to send those two back to their village."

Seth-3PO is over by a tree with his two furry little followers. "I _can't_. It would bring grave dishonor to their clan if I sent them away. I'll look after them. I have my blaster."

"Dean, we don't have time for this," Becky says softly, and Ambrose waves her off.

"You and Sasha go with AJ, Becks. Go around that way." He points to his left. "Roman, come with me. Let's see what we're up against. When you hear Cesartoo's beep, start shooting. Be quick about it. Come on."

_It can't be this easy,_ Roman thinks, crouching low and quietly following Ambrose off to the right and well around the clearing ahead of them. It's slow-going, thanks to some fairly thick undergrowth. With the droids struggling along behind them, they inch their way over a small hill, and through a break in the trees, Roman can just make out the white of a Stormtrooper's armor. The trooper is a ways away, and facing in a different direction, thankfully. There's one right beside that one. A pair of them.

"Looks like they're doubled up," Roman grunts.

"Yeah," Ambrose says. "You get into position and take them, then. I'm gonna move further around. See what I got."

Roman reaches over and drops a hand on Ambrose's shoulder. "Be careful, huh?"

It's really too dark to see Ambrose's face, but Roman thinks Ambrose might be grinning. "Hey, it's _me_. Be listening for Cesartoo."

Seth-3PO, flanked by his two little furry bodyguards, tuts. "He doesn't understand _careful_ , I'm afraid."

" _Hush_ ," Ambrose grunts at him. "C'mon."

_It can't be this easy,_ Roman thinks again as he crawls his way closer to the pair of guards standing near what he discovers is the _Falcon's_ damaged cargo bay. He hunkers down behind the heavy trunk of a downed tree and peers through the dark. From his vantage point, he can see there's at least three pairs of troopers standing guard on this side of the ship, a weak light illuminating the area around them. The troopers all have blaster rifles in hand, which is an unwelcome sight to see: they have a lot longer range than Roman's own blaster. His is a pistol, but it's been retrofitted with a special booster that gives it almost triple the power than most blaster rifles have. The extra power consumption means fewer shots, but at the range he settles on he should only need two.

Should.

He hopes so: his armor can't deflect any shots. If this turns into a battle, his armor won't protect him much.

But he _should_ only need two shots.

_It can't be this easy_.

* * *

It isn't.

Never is.

From off somewhere around the other side of the ship, Roman hears Ewok chatter followed by Seth-3PO's sharp, "Joey, no!"

The Stormtroopers' helmeted heads whip around, and chaos erupts.

Without even pausing to think about it, Roman pops up from his hiding spot and fires two quick shots at the pair of troopers ahead of him. One hits direct, while the other misses completely. The surviving Trooper ducks under the _Falcon_ and barks into his 'comm, "We're under attack! Send reinforcements!" right before red blaster fire cuts through the night and takes the trooper out.

There's more fire around the ship, blaster bolts pinging off the dirt and hitting the ship.

From where he's standing, he can see most of the Troopers are down, but a couple of them appear to be trying to run. Roman hauls himself over the downed tree trunk and races for the clearing, skirting under the ship and shooting at a lone Trooper who's firing wildly into the trees.

The last two, near the ship's ramp, both have Ewoks on their backs, Jamie and Joey holding on for dear life and batting at the Stormtroopers' helmets with small rocks. Ambrose darts from between a couple trees and goes after one while Roman spins and darts after the last one.

He wrestles the Trooper to the ground, Ewok and all. It's a confusion of hands and fists and feet, but between Roman and the determined little Ewok, they manage to disarm and incapacitate the Trooper.

Panting, Roman climbs to his feet and turns just in time to see Ambrose and the other Ewok moving off of the other Trooper, who is similarly down - just like all the others, white-clad soldiers all strewn out unconscious all over the ground like fallen leaves.

Ambrose, who's all disheveled and dusty, races Roman's way. "We got 'em all!" he calls out urgently. "Let's get into the ship and get off the ground. Hurry!" And Roman turns himself to head for the ship's ramp.

He doesn't really process it when he hears Ambrose shout, "AJ, no!"

_What-?_

Before Roman can even ask, something - someone - barrels into him hard enough to sent him staggering to the ground just as a blaster fires right at him. Somebody - _Ambrose_? - cries out in pain.

"Dean!" Becky yells, but it sounds like it's coming from the far end of a tunnel.

As Roman climbs back to his feet, all he can can see is Styles standing near the edge of the clearing, wide-eyed and stunned, his blaster still in hand. In a flash, Roman understands everything: Styles had tried to shoot Roman while he'd been running for the ramp. Ambrose saw it and pushed Roman out of the way.

Without as so much as a second thought, Roman lowers his head and charges just as hard as he can, spear-tackling the frozen Styles to the ground. Styles hits with a hard, " _Oof_ ," his blaster clattering to the ground beside him.

Furious, Roman rears back and punches Styles in the mouth - just because he's been wanting to do that all day. He wrestles Styles over and restrains Styles' hands behind him again, not bothering to be gentle about it.

He swipes up Styles' blaster and hauls the half-unconscious Styles to his feet. Only then does he look around to where Sasha, Becky, the droids and the Ewoks have converged on Ambrose. "Is he all right?"

_Please, Lady..._

"I'm fine," Ambrose himself grits out. Between Sasha and Becky, Roman can see Ambrose sit up, his right hand slapped over his left arm, which is bleeding, red staining dirty white fabric. "Come on. We got incoming. We gotta go."

Sasha and Becky help Ambrose up to his feet just as a shuttle flies by overhead.

"Go go go!" Becky yells, turning to run up the ramp as fast as she can with Ambrose flailing along between her and Sasha. "Get him to the bunks. I'll fly-"

" _No_ ," Ambrose says, staggering away from her. "Becky, take Sasha and Cesartoo. We don't have the parts to fix anything, so you'll have to do what you can to get the ship working. I don't know what is and what isn't broken. Roman," he adds, glancing around, "dump AJ in cockpit. I'll keep an eye on him. Then you and Seth get to the cannons. We're probably gonna have to fight our way out of this. _Go_."

Becky immediately turns to Sasha. "We'll need to grab the tool kits on the way back, then."

Sasha nods once and follows Becky and Cesar2-D2 up the ramp.

Roman doesn't stop to ask questions; he hauls Styles through the _Falcon's_ tight corridors and on up to the bridge. He drops a still out-of-it Styles into one of the rear seats seat like a sack of stones and makes quick work of strapping him in, taking an extra few seconds to ensure Syles' hands are secure behind him.

Once that's done, he turns on his heels and squeezes past a clearly in-pain Captain Ambrose. The skin around Ambrose's mouth is white and the formerly white sleeve of his shirt is slowly blooming red.

But there's determination in the stubborn set of his jaw. Fire in his eyes.

Pain or no, Ambrose is clearly in this.

"Get us out of this, Captain Ambrose," Roman says, and Ambrose flashes him a grin that's all mania and dimples, wild and gleaming with confidence.

"I will if you will," Ambrose says. "Don't let those Imperial scumbags get us."

"I won't," Roman promises. "Believe that."

He and the captain exchange a nod, and separate.

"All right," Roman mutters to himself. "Let's do this."


	11. Endor (V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape.

**The Phenomenal Menace**  
XI. Endor (V)

There's no way that a single, crippled freighter should be able to make it past a planet full of Stormtroopers, two entire battalions of TIE-Fighters, and two Star Destroyers.

That's like trying to stop a flood with a few grains of sand.

The _Millennium Falcon_ hitches and shudders when Ambrose fires her up, some ominous clanking emanating from deep within her. Roman, back up in the turret, tightens the shoulder straps on his seat extra tight. He has a feeling he's going to need all the stability he can get, given both that ship is not sounding real good _and_ the part where the targeting computer is flickering.

Even so, battle cool settles back into Roman's bones, driving away the aches and the exhaustion, narrowing his focus to the black sky and the trees around them.

There are lights approaching from every direction.

"They know we're here," Roman mutters.

" _I see that,_ " Ambrose mutters back at him. " _Take off is probably gonna be bumpy, so hang on. Be ready to cut us a path out of here. You too, Seth_."

Roman starts. He hadn't realized the 'comm channel was open. He brings the laser cannons around front. "Ready."

Ambrose counts them down from four and it's every bit as bumpy as Ambrose had predicted, the _Falcon_ shuddering like she's caught in a storm as she slowly crawls up into the sky. Flashes of blaster fire paint the night red around them, some of it hitting and making the ride even rougher. Roman nearly bites his tongue off when the ship gives a particularly hard kick.

" _Dean, we can't keep takin' hits like that!_ " Becky calls from somewhere inside the ship, her voice sharp and urgent.

They're just barely above the tree line.

" _Just keep her running, Becks,_ " Ambrose bites back. " _I'll do my part. Roman! Seth! We got incoming!_ "

He no sooner says that than Roman sees a small swarm of shuttles speeding up at them from the ground, their lights giving them away in the dark.

" _Here we go again_ ," Seth-3PO mutters, and opens fire.

"Uh-huh," Roman answers. He swivels his cannons around and starts firing himself, not really even bothering to look at his targeting computer. They're close enough that it's not necessary. The shuttles fire back, but compared to Imperial TIE-Fighters, the shuttles' lasers are weak. Ambrose is mostly able to avoid them just by steepening the _Falcon's_ climb. It throws Roman back in his seat, but he's more prepared for it this time - as much as he can be - and he manages to hold steady on the controls.

Between he and Seth-3PO, they punch a hole through the swarm big enough to give the _Falcon_ some breathing room. Shuttles explode in huge showers of sparks and smoke, fall back to the ground and burn. Once there's a big enough hole, Ambrose accelerates and levels off instead of shooting straight off the planet. They still have shuttles chasing them - and a few TIE-Fighters - and the ride is so bumpy Roman feels like his teeth are going to rattle out, but pretty quickly the _Falcon_ gains some distance on them.

Red laser fire shoots past them, misss.

Roman has time to think that Ambrose is actually a pretty decent pilot.

" _I'm gonna take us around to the far side of the planet,_ " Ambrose says over the 'comm. " _It's probably surrounded, but maybe we'll get lucky and find a way to sneak out. Hang on. It's pretty choppy up ahead._ _Becky, how's the hyperdrive looking? I'm gonna want go full-burn as soon as I got a window. Incoming!_ " he snaps before Becky can answer. " _TIE-Fighters. They're right above us. I'm goin' up. Get 'em."_

The _Falcon_ pulls up sharply just in time for the TIE-Fighters to start shooting at them.

 _Watch over us, Lady_ , Roman thinks, and swings the quadlaser cannons around.

As it had earlier, his entire world narrows down to nothing but his view out the turret's windows, at what feels like an endless stream of TIE-Fighters, the red flash of lasers, explosions, and the _Falcon's_ wild and unpredictable movements. The ship protests and whines the whole way, bucks and shudders, but it's that unpredictability - Ambrose's piloting style, apparently - that keeps the ship from taking a lot of damage as they blast their way through the first small wave of TIE-fighters.

Behind that first wave is another. And another.

Despite Ambrose's best efforts, the _Falcon_ takes damage. One particularly hard hit twists them around, and Roman, desperately fighting to keep steady on the controls, tastes fear for the second time today, bitter and acidic. All he can see as they spin is incoming ships and so many red lights.

Ambrose pulls them out it and dives down low, near the tree line. The TIE-Fighters close in.

Roman, sweating all over from the exertion of maneuvering the heavy laser cannons side to side, vision going strange from the constant flashes of light against the dark, nearly freezes up. There are so many fighters. They're smaller than the _Falcon_ \- mosquitoes to a fly - but the sheer number of them-

" _Get me a window!_ " Ambrose snaps, and he sounds desperate. Roman doesn't wonder. they're about surrounded and too near the ground to have any kind of good avenue to escape. " _I'm gonna burn it hard and try to get us outta this, but I need a lane. Either we're gonna get out here or we're done. This is it. Everybody strap in and hang on."_

The warrior in Roman decides if they're going down, at least they'll go down fighting. There's honor in it. He straightens his exhausted body in the turret's hard, uncomfortable seat and settles in for one last battle.

Time goes funny, slowing down like running wax slowing as it cools. It stretches. Roman can't tell if he's shaking or if it's just the ship. Maybe it's both. He fires and fires and fires, shooting at anything that moves in front of him - missing some, hitting others - and the night lights up all around them with fireworks of exploding ships. He can't count them all, but they're brighter than stars.

The _Falcon_ trembles and whines and weaves and bobs and dives, but she doesn't explode.

Somehow, she holds together.

With no warning whatsoever, Roman's thrown back into his seat so hard it winds him. His hand flies off the cannons' controls and he knocks his elbow into the armrest, his head snaps back, and somewhere, distantly, he hears Ambrose's belated yell of, " _Hang on! We're almost clear!_ "

Roman squints through the window and he sees it: a small gap ahead of them. There's debris everywhere around it, and fighters are closing in, but there's enough of a gap. It should be enough. Ambrose flies the _Flacon_ right into it, threads the needle.

The next thing Roman sees is the cold back of space.

And two Star Destroyers approaching from his left.

"Ambrose!" he yells.

" _I see 'em, I see 'em_!" Ambrose calls back, diving under a quartet of oncoming TIE-Fighters. " _Making the jump. Hold on_."

The TIE-Fighters that'd just missed them swing around and start to give chase. The Star Destroyers follow, big their big lasers flaring green around the TIE-Fighters' reds.

Roman closes his eyes and waits for whatever end is coming.

* * *

That horrible feeling of compression hits him just as the ship gives a hard kick, driving him into the seat. It feels like someone is standing on him.

He doesn't know if it's an explosion or the hyperdrive; either way, he doesn't loosen his death grip on the seat's arms.

Through the window, he can see what looks like stars blurring by, and he thinks maybe, by some miracle, maybe they did make it out.

A short while later, the pressure equalizes, and when it does, Ambrose's voice comes over the 'comm. " _We're clear._ "

They're two of the sweetest words Roman's ever heard in his life.

They're _alive_.

" _Is everyone okay_?" Ambrose asks, subdued and shaky.

"I'm fine," Roman says.

" _Sasha's got a bump on her head,_ " Becky says, " _but we're fine otherwise. Are you all right, ya old junkheap_?"

"' _M fine,"_ Ambrose says. " _Roman, you can come down._ "

"Be down in a second," Roman says, but he doesn't hurry to get up. He spends a moment watching hyperspace speed by in its bright whites, and he sends up a silent prayer of thanks.

EOn legs that feel lboneless and weak, he descends the central ladder. He almost kicks one of the two Ewoks when he reaches the main deck. The pair of them are hovering over the lower turret with a cable in their paws (hands?), and appear to be hoisting an annoyed Seth-3PO up.

"Be careful! My finish is already damaged enough thanks to the branches and the tree sap! It'll take me _weeks_ to get all these scratches out! Don't add more!"

"Hey, nice shooting," Roman calls down to him.

Seth-3PO makes a noise that's mostly disbelief. "Of _course_ it was. It's in my programming. You could help, you know."

Roman rolls his eyes. "Looks like your helpers here got you covered."

He leaves the complaining Seth-3PO in the care of his two chattering Ewoks, and makes his way to the cockpit.

Ambrose is slumped back in the pilot's seat, ashy pale all over again. About a quarter of his left sleeve below the shoulder is blood-soaked, and so is the edge of the bandage on his temple.

"You all right there, Dean?" Roman asks, taking a seat in the co-pilot's chair. "Don't look so hot."

And apparently he's Dean now.

"Fine," Dean says. He doesn't open his eyes.

From the seat immediately behind Roman, Styles snorts. "No he ain't. Reigns, get Becky up here and let her fix him."

"She's trying to fix my ship," Dean says, straightening. "I don't wanna pull her away from it. We lost the primary hyperdrive," he adds to Roman. "The back-up survived, but it's only running about eighty-percent. Gonna take us a little longer to get anywhere. Sub-light engines are only partially working. The hull's smashed open in about six places. Not much we can do about _that_ , but…"

Roman swivels his chair to face Dean's. "Ya got us out of it, though. We survived. That's something."

"More 'n I expected," Styles mutters.

"Nobody asked you," Roman says. "Where's your medkit? I'll go grab it."

Stubborn man that he is, Dean shakes his head and makes to get up. "I'll get it."

"No," both Roman and Styles tell him at the same time.

"Don't move, you idiot," Styles adds. "Reigns, just get  _me_ the medkit. I'll take care of him. Can't have anybody dying on the ship here."

" _No_ ," Roman says again. "You've already done enough, Styles. Amb - Dean, where's your medkit?"

"In the lounge," is the tired slur of an answer. "There's a cabinet under the seat. Right side. 'F you're goin', grab me a shirt, too? Back of the washroom, lower cabinet." Dean gestures at the bloody mess on his sleeve. "Guess this one's done."

It doesn't take Roman long to find what he's looking for. When he hunkers down to pull the gray medkit out from under the seat, he's glad to find it well-stocked. It'd have been just their luck that the kit wouldn't have much in the way of supplies. And Dean has a stack of those white shirts in his cabinet, too; none of them are exactly in great condition, but Roman finds one that is at least clean and not falling apart.

He wishes he could say the same abou this armor, which at some point in all the hustle and bustle in the last hour has quit working again. That probably explains why he's still sweating despite the new holes in the side-webbing and in the knees of his pants.

That's something to worry about later, he supposes, adjusting the medkit's strap over his shoulder.

Back in the cockpit, it's quiet again, Ambrose staring off into space and Styles sullenly doing the same. Roman carries the kit and the shirt back to the co-pilot's seat and sits down again. "Take your shirt off, Captain."

Dean immediately looks over, eyebrows raised and a smile tucking up the corners of his mouth. "I _knew_ it."

It's both reassuring and just a little annoying. "Don't even start. Just take it off."

"Just gimme the kit," Dean says instead, reaching across the gap for the bag in Roman's lap. "I'll take care of it."

"Just let me," Roman says. It's not the command he meant it to be; if anything, it's more a request. "I know what I'm doing."

"So do I," Dean grumbles, but he slips out of the black leather vest and worms out of the shirt anyway. He grimaces in pain as he when he straightens out his arm to pull bloody fabric away from it.

Roman isn't surprised: the blaster wound in as long as Roman's first finger, but wider. A little deeper, too. It's angry red, slick and burned, on both sides and still oozing a little in the center. Amazing Dean can even lift his arm at all.

"That looks bad," Roman eventually says. He unzips the medkit and is both surprised and glad to find a few bacta packs in and among the various wraps and medications. A being immersed in a bacta tank would heal Dean up fastest, but having any bacta at all to put on the injuries will help them heal faster. He holds up a pack. "These are hard to come by. I didn't even have any in my own kit."

"Traded a medic for 'em," Dean says. "I did her a favor."

"Ah," Roman nods. A little deeper into the kit, he finds some cleaning pads and some liquid painkiller. He hands the painkiller over, and unwraps the pad. "Give me your arm."

Of course Dean doesn't. "I can do it. I've been doin' that most of my life."

That's probanly true.  His chest is a webwork of scars, Roman notices, white lines slashing across his skin like lines on star chart. Point to point. Roman wonders what stories lay between them all. He doesn't relinquish the pad. "Just take the painkiller and let me handle this. I owe you."

Blue eyes narrow to steely points. "For _what_?"

"You saved my life back there," Roman says. "When _somebody_ tried to shoot me in the back."

"Tryina do us a favor," Styles mutters.

Meanwhile, Dean just blinks a few times like he's not even sure what Roman's talking about. "I didn't _really_. I just…"

Roman reaches over and gently takes hold of Dean's injured arm. "That shot would have killed me. I didn't have my deflector. You saved my life, Dean. Let me do this for you."

Dean frowns, but bites into the capsule. He doesn't protest or try to pull away again. About the only thing he does do is hiss between his teeth when Roman wipes the blood out of the blaster wound.

"Sorry," Roman says.

"'S okay," Dean says. "Stings."

His eyes are very blue. Roman doesn't know what that occurs to him just then, but it does.

The cabin is too warm.

It's the work of just a moment to spread some bacta over the wound and wrap it up. Dean's probably as still as Roman's ever seen him, and stays that way as Roman turns his attention to the crude dressing around the head wound.

That one has stopped bleeding, finally. There's a nasty gash running from Dean's temple to just over his ear, and swollen knot under it. It looks like a small egg.

Roman spreads the last of the bacta from the open back onto the gash with a couple light fingers, creating a thick, shiny layer. He takes his time with it, and tries not to let himself get distracted by the patch of stubble Dean missed shaving. It's down at the corner of his jaw. Roman has the most ridiculous urge to touch it.

Once upon a time, Roman had learned that being in a high-stress, high-intensity situation with someone can make you feel closer to them than you actually are. He can't allow himself to get attached to De - to _Ambrose_. To any of these people.

He doesn't touch Ambrose's stubble.

After he finishes applying the bacta to Ambrose's temple, he sits back and lets go of Ambrose's face, awkwardly wiping his hands off on the cleaning pad. "I think it'd be better to leave that one the way it is. It'll heal fine on its own."

"All right," Ambrose nods. Seems better already, free of the blood and his pain on its way to being under control. "Thanks."

He doesn't move to pull his clean shirt on yet, though; he just sits there looking at Roman. Studying him. Despite his resolve, Roman finds himself studying Ambrose right back. It's still warm in the cabin. Roman's sweating, but he doesn't actually want to break away from...whatever this is to do anything about it.

"Well, _that_ explains a lot," Styles says right then, the exasperated sound of his voice shattering the moment. "Great, Dean. That's just great. You saved Reigns because you wanna ride on his shuttle. Do you think with anything other than your-?"

" _Hey_!" Ambrose yelps. He's flustered as he grabs his shirt and yanks it on. Roman finds that both more charming and funnier than is probably good for his health. He focuses on putting the medkit back in order, mostly to give himself something to look at besides Ambrose's chest. Meanwhile, Ambrose's voice has risen a full octave. "That's not - _no_. Keep your mouth shut, Styles, or I will space you for real."

"You couldn't if you tried," Styles drawls. "Just fly the ship, Ambrose."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Ambrose says, turning his attention back to the ship's controls.

Roman clears his throat. "I'll go put the medkit back and do something with your shirt."

"Just throw it in the cleaner unit, see if the blood comes out," Ambrose says, glowering down at a flashing light. "Why don't you go see if Becky and Sasha need help when you're done. They might not, but check anyway. Get some food if you want it, too. See if they want anything."

"All right." Roman keeps his tone even. He's not fond of being ordered around, but he understands why Ambrose is doing it. It's probably better for both of them that he is. "Get yourself something, too. You lost a lot of blood. And don't say _I'm fine_. Eat something."

"I will, I will," Ambrose says, waving a dismissive hand. "Go."

"Thanks for saving my life back there," Roman says, climbing to his feet and making his way to the back of the cockpit. "I owe you one. But before I go, where are we going?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out," Ambrose says. "I need to know how long the hyperdrive is gonna hold up. Once I know, we'll decide.  That was good shooting back there, by the way.  I don't think you owe me anything.  I think we're even."

"Not yet," Roman says mildly, and takes himself out of the cockpit.

 _Don't_ , he tells himself. _Just let it go_.

He really, really should.


	12. Escape (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their escape begins. A little bit of a transitional chapter. It's a little slow.

**The Phenomenal Menace**  
XII. Escape (I)

The _Millennium Falcon's_ main engine station is around the back of the ship. Roman finds it just by following the sounds of Cesar2-D2's chirping past the lounge area and on down a narrow corridor that's got a bunch of tool kits and various other odds and ends lining either side..

He finds the mech droid plugged into a terminal, beeping away like he's talking to himself.

Just beyond where Cesar2-D2's working, Roman spots a head of bright orange hair peeking out over the top of an open panel, and a dark pink one just behind it. He deliberately lets his feet thump down on the metal decking so they can hear him coming, his footsteps echoing down the narrow passage.

Both Becky and Sasha look around when he approaches, closed expressions and narrowed eyes. Roman's seen friendlier expressions on people trying to kill him. They look like they're calculating how much money they'll be able to get from selling his organs.

Sasha rises, her hand at her hip. "What do you want?"

Roman pauses halfway between them and Cesar2-D2 and leans sideways on a bulkhead. "Captain sent me down here to see if you two need any help. I'm not great with tech, but I can follow orders if you need a pair of hands."

"And let you sabotage the hyperdrive? No."

"I won't." Roman shakes his head to emphasize just how stupid that idea is. "After what we just went through to get free, you really think I'm gonna do something that's gonna get us back into that mess? We _barely_ made it out, and I am _not_ lookin to get back into that fire. If we're gonna make it anywhere, we need the ship intact. You think I'm gonna do something to get in the way of that?"

Rather than answer the question, Becky tosses some fried wiring behind her and says, "You can't take him. AJ. We're not gonna let ya. Better get that through your head now, pretty boy. You're alive right now 'cuz Dean stepped in for ya. That doesn't mean _we_ are gonna let ya walk away wit' AJ. He's ours. You ride to wherever we're goin' and then we part ways. That's it."

Sasha's blaster makes its unwelcome appearance as she slides it out in a single smooth gesture and points aims it right at Roman's head. "You know, AJ had the right idea. I say we just end this now. Get rid of him before he can cause us any more trouble."

Becky stands up long enough to push Sasha's arm away. " _Don't_."

"Why _not_?" Sasha rounds on Becky, almost shaking with anger. "They all _died_ , Becky. Everyone. Sheamus and 'Zo and Cass. Xavier. _Xavier_ is dead. They're _dead_ because of people like him. Imperial _scum_. If we let him live, more of us will die."

"Reigns, leave," Becky says, her voice cold. "Go. Tell Dean I said we don't need your help. We've got it under control."

Roman holds his ground. "He wants to know how long we're gonna be able to go. Says he doesn't know where to take us yet."

"I'll tell him myself," Becky says, reaching for the 'comm panel. "Leave."

"My orders came from the Emperor himself," Roman bites out. This day is just not going his way. "If I don't bring him in, I'm dead. If I try to take him away from you, you'll try to kill me. What am I supposed to do here?"

"That's not our problem, scum," Sasha says, raising her blaster again with a shaking hand. Her eyes are tear-shiny. "Your people killed people we _loved_."

"They're _not_ my people!"

A loud, strident mechanical chirp from behind him - that reminds Roman irresistibly of Ambrose's annoyed _Hey!_ \- brings them all up short with the way it rolls and echoes through the tight corridor. Roman glances at a nearby display as Cesartoo beeps. " _This was not his doing,_ " the display reads _. "He could have taken Styles to Imperial troops and saved himself. Helped us escape instead. Could be an ally. We need to fix the ship. Stop bickering._ "

Startled, Roman turns to look at Cesartoo. "Thank you."

Cesartoo rocks side to side on his mechanical feet and beeps again. " _Watch over Captain, Roman. He needs it more than we do._ "

That last he says with an odd little mechanical chortle, and Roman chuckles himself. "Got that right."

"Is he all right?" Becky asks then. She bends and twists the burnt piece of wire in her hands. "Dean?"

"I got him patched up and a painkiller in him," Roman nods. "He'll live."

Maybe it's just his imagination, but it looks like Becky's expression softens a hair. "Good. Cesartoo is right, though. We need to get back to work on the ship. Let AJ go."

Roman snorts. "No. He'll just try to kill me again. Or worse, you three'll try to hijack this ship. Ambrose has already been through enough today. Leave him be. He's not part of this. When we get closer to wherever we're going, the two of you, me, and Styles will talk."

Becky gives him a long, hard look like he's some new species she's never seen before. "The _Falcon_ is the only thing Dean cares about. I'd never try to hijack her. Now go. We'll talk later."

"Fine," Roman says, and he turns away. On his way out of the engine compartment, he pats Cesar2-D2's domed head and says, "Thanks."

Cesartoo gives a terse little beep that sounds a lot like he's saying, " _Yup_."

* * *

Rather than hurry back up to the cockpit, Roman slips into the head and squeezes himself back into the washer unit to scrape away the layer of sap and dirt and sweat that had made skin abraded from his time on Tatooine start burning again. He sets his vest in the washer unit while he's at it, hoping to at least get the dirt out of the back of it. His pants he puts back on, the memory of Ambrose's inappropriate leering all too fresh in his memory.

After the pulls on his undershirt, he makes his way into the galley and frees a trio of ready meals from the cold case. They're not his favorite, but food is food, and he's willing to wager his meager fortune that Ambrose ignored him about eating something. Styles doesn't deserve it, but it would be pretty rude to starve the guy.

Gives him something to do, anyway, since he doesn't know what else he _can_ do.

He's so used to piloting his own ship and looking after it that he can't even remember what it's really like to be on a ship where there's a crew taking care of everything. Not being in control is not, he finds, a very enjoyable position to be in.

As he's leaning against the cold box and waiting for the meals to heat up, he hears a strange noise from the second bunk room, a low almost _moaning_ sound like…

...pleasure?

He pushes away from the cold box and ventures back out into the narrow corridor, heavy boots' tread echoing in his ears.

The moan drifts out of the bunk room again, followed by Seth-3PO's droning voice: "Ohhhhhh. Right there. A little harder." He says some words in what Roman now recognizes as the Ewoks' language, and makes that noise again.

Curious despite himself, Roman can't resist sneaking a look into the room.

He regrets it: they're all standing beside the bunks. One of the Ewoks is behind Seth-3PO, while the other is bent in front of him. The one behind appears to be rubbing Seth-3PO's rear end, while the one in front appears to be doing the same to the front side. And as Roman begins to back away, Seth-3PO makes this content-sounding, "Ahhhh."

_What the…?_

The Ewoks have cloths, Roman belatedly realizes, but even so that's a sight he hadn't needed to see.

_Meals_ , he reminds himself, double-timing it up to the galley. Food is necessary. Food is important.

The meals are ready, so he stacks them up and carries them along with a few drink pouches back up to the cockpit. Ambrose hasn't moved from the pilot's seat, and isn't doing much but watching hyperspace buzz past in its blues and whites and blacks. Styles, still strapped into the rear seat, appears to have fallen asleep.

Ambrose glances around when Roman makes his way up to the co-pilot's chair with the food. Still pale, Ambrose is, but a lot less than he'd been down on the planet. A little smile rucks up the corner of his mouth. "They kick you out?"

Roman passes a tray over, and takes a seat. "Thought I'd try to sabotage the hyperdrive."

"Well, that's stupid," Ambrose drawls. "Why would you do that? Then you'd be stranded on a ship full of people who'd just as soon kill ya as look at ya."

" _Exactly_ ," Roman says, setting the other two meals down on the edge of the console. "I'm not that stupid. You're not in that 'just as soon kill you as look as you' camp are you?"

"No."

"Told you," Styles pipes up from behind them, "he wants a ride on your-"

"Shut up, Styles," Roman and Ambrose snap in near-unison.

Styles barks a laugh. "Listen to you two. Already soundin' like my parents. And _yes_ ," he adds, eyeing the remaining trays, "I'm starving. Untie me so I can eat."

"Or you could feed him like a baby," Ambrose says, more-or-less reading Roman's mind. He opens the lid on his meal tray, grabs the fork, and scoops up a bite of yellow mash. "Here comes the shuttle, little man. Open up."

"Go kiss a Wampa," Styles mutters. "Let me outta these cuffs."

Ambrose eats the mash himself, and Roman says, "I'd let you go, Styles, but I know you're just gonna attack me again. I'd just as soon you don't start any more trouble - for me or for Ambrose here. Especially him."

"I'm _fine_!" Ambrose says, indignant, through his food. "I c'h handle him."

"I meant your ship," Roman replies smoothly. "Your ship has been through enough."

"She's tougher 'n I am," Ambrose says, eyes narrowing. "Don't need protectin'."

Roman looks pointedly at the knot on the side of Ambrose's head. "Really."

By way of answer, Ambrose shoves another bite of mash into his mouth. "Worry 'bout your prisoner there."

"I'm not gonna start trouble," Styles breaks in. "What I wanna do is eat, use the head, and go check on Becky and Sasha. That's all. You can feed me if you want, but that means you're gonna be holding my hose when I'm ready to use the toilet. Probably wiping me, too. I need to-"

"Let him go, Roman," Ambrose breaks in. "Just let him go. You're not gonna be able to take him anyway." He's serious again, grim in the tightness around his eyes. "You know that. Becky and Sasha, they won't let you take him. I'm not so sure I will, either. I recognized a few of those ships - the ones who got taken out. Not to mention the damage to my ship here. Not real fond of the Emperor or the Empire right now."

A beat of surprised silence falls over the cockpit. Roman watches a few lights flicker on the panels overhead, considering.

Styles, meanwhile, leans forward against his restraints. "I know me and you don't know each other that well, Dean, but I know _about_ you. It's not just Becky. Other people talk. What I've heard is how it's a shame you won't fight for us. Also that you're an idiot and reckless and keep questionable company, but that - aside from that, it's mostly that you're good in a fight. I don't know we got out of that mess back there, but we did somehow. That's on you. You see what we're up against. You see what they're willing to do. We all want them gone. We could use you."

Ambrose, sitting forward again, stirs his food and squints out through the viewer window. "No money in it."

" _Money_?" Styles scoffs. "The Emperor is trying to take away all our freedoms, and all you care about is _money_? What good's money gonna do you when you lose your ship and your right to fly? You will. It'll come."

"They can try," Ambrose mutters. He hits a switch overhead. "Becks? How we lookin'?"

" _Rough_ ," is the brusque answer. " _Better in some ways. Cesartoo has diverted power from the primary hyperdrive to the shields, so we'll at least have some defense if we're caught again. There's no fixin' the primary hyperdrive 'til we can set down somewhere. We need parts you don't have._ "

"I figured that," Ambrose says. "How long will the backup carry us?"

" _Long enough_. _I reckon we can make the jump to Bespin. That'd be my suggestion_."

Ambrose shakes his head. "Tatooine's closer. Even limping, we can make it there in twenty-nine hours. Bespin's forty-nine."

" _Bespin is safer_ ," Becky says. " _You know that. Plus the junkers on Tatooine might not have what you need to fix the ship. I will on Bespin - and you know I will._ "

"The protections are a lot better on Bespin," Styles pipes up. "That's where we should go. Becky, tell them to let me go."

Cesar2-D2 beeps something that sounds rude in the background. Becky, meanwhile, snorts and says, " _Not an option Cesartoo. We need him. In any case, AJ, as long as you leave Reigns alone, I don't see why it would be a problem._ "

"Oh, I don't think Dean here would let me anywhere near him," Styles says dryly. "In any case, there's no point. The time to kill him and leave him was back on Endor. All I wanna do is get to Bespin and grab a ship back to base. Long as Reigns leaves me be, I'll mind myself. I'm just gonna grab some grub and some sleep - unless you two need a hand?"

" _Nah, we've got it under control. Won't be much longer, in any case. Isn't much we can do for the ship until we get some parts. We'll be up soon ourselves. Food 'n sleep sounds good to me. You all right, Deano?"_

She asks this just as Ambrose shovels a big bite of mash into his mouth. "Uh-huh," he grunts.

"Is anybody even gonna ask me what I think?" Roman asks suddenly.

"Nobody cares," AJ says, just as Becky says, " _Not interested_."

But Ambrose raises eyebrows. "Somethin' on your mind?"

Ignoring Styles' snort, Roman looks over. "I'm all right with letting Styles go _for now_ as long as he's gonna behave. That's fine. But before we get to Bespin, we gotta figure this out. I'm not real thrilled at the idea of having just two options that both end up with me dead. I ain't Empire. I'm willing to listen. After what we went through today, I have to be. I might not be your ally, but I'm not your enemy. Keep that in mind."

" _Fine_ ," Becky says. " _Like I said before, we'll talk later. We got work to do_."

The comm channel closes. Ambrose swallows the last of his food and sets his tray down. "Guess that's that for now, huh? I gotta hit the head."

When he stands up, he's a lot steadier than he had been earlier. Color in his face is better, too, Roman's relieved to note. No more blood seeping out of his head injury. It's good.

Roman waits for him to leave, and then gets up himself to move around to the rear seat.

Styles looks up at him with those piercing eyes, narrowed and thoughtful. "If you're not my enemy, that means you step aside and let me go when we get to Bespin. I gotta get these plans to base. We _have_ to stop this thing if we have any chance to stay free."

"I'll think-"

" _SETH-3PO! NOT ON MY SHIP!"_ Ambrose suddenly bellows from the hallway.

Roman and Styles exchange a look as Seth-3PO's nasal voice drifts into the cockpit. "They're just rubbing me off, Captain! I have sap _everywhere_. It's _sticky_. I can't help that it feels good to get it off! What do _you_ even care? You won't ever rub me down! I always have to take care of myself."

"Well, if you're gonna do that," Ambrose says, "at least close the _door_. Nobody needs to see this."

"Too late," Roman mutters over Styles' restraints.

"Do I wanna know?" Styles asks.

"No," Roman chuckles. "No, you do not."


	13. Escape (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a slow-paced chapter here. Still in the transition phase. Next chapter will take us out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, not abandoned. Just slow in updating. Sorry. "Spin" got in the way. Now this has gotten in the way of "Spin." It's a vicious cycle. Oh well. It's a new chapter of a thing. That counts, right?

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** XIII. Escape (II)

Styles leaves the cockpit with his meal tray once Roman lets him go.

Roman takes his own food and settles back into the co-pilot's seat with it. It's lukewarm by now, but food is food, and he's three bites in when Ambrose makes his way back up to his own chair.

"So you saw Seth-3PO, too, huh?" Roman asks, smirking around his fork. "Interesting."

"Not the word I'd use for it," Ambrose replies. He leans over his instrument panel and taps a couple buttons. "Shoudla left him back on Endor."

"You would've missed him too much," Roman says, "and you know it."

"Guess he's good in a fight. Strategy, too. You're probably right." Ambrose waves him off. "Two days to Bespin. We gotta make a second jump here in about eighteen hours - get on the right lane. Probably have you on standby once we get ready to make that second jump just in case there's any trouble. We got shields this time, at least."

"That's something."

Ambrose sits back, looks over. "What are you gonna do?"

"About Styles?" Roman deliberately takes a couple more bites to give himself time to choose his words. There's nothing that he needs to really think about now. "You're not gonna let me take him, so I think I have to let him go."

What he feels when he says this isn't anger, but resignation and relief, as if he's shedding a heavy weight he's carried with him far too long. It's the only logical choice he _can_ make here: while he probably could subdue and overpower everyone on the ship if he took them out one at a time, he can't bring himself to even entertain the idea. He owes Ambrose his life, and he's not about to repay that with treachery.

It's not in him.

Ambrose, meanwhile, continues to study Roman's face like he's mapping out a constellation. "That's the right call," he eventually says. "I don't wanna jump in on all this Rebellion stuff, but I don't wanna get in the way, either."

"Is it really about the money for you?" Roman asks, curious. "Is that why? Much as I hate to admit it, Styles did have a point: if the Empire gets their way, money won't matter a whole lot. I've seen how afraid people are getting. If it comes down to making money or fighting to stay free, I'm fighting."

"You probably don't have the kind of debt I do," Ambrose says. He returns his attention to the viewer. "If the Empire tries to take my ship or take my freedom away, I'll give 'em a fight before I go down. But the thing about the Hutts is that when if you make them mad, you'll be dead before you even realize they found you."

The Hutts run one of the biggest smuggling operations in the galaxy, and from what Roman knows of them, they're pretty ruthless. "How in debt are you?"

"More than Bubba is willing to overlook - especially now that I lost this shipment." Ambrose grins suddenly, but there's not much humor in it. "He'll probably put a bounty on my head, so, y'know. That might be a job for you."

"You assume I'd take it." Roman chews a piece of fatty meat. "Money's not everything to me."

"What are you gonna do, though? You let Styles go, and then what?"

"I don't know," Roman admits. "I'll have a bounty out on me, probably, so I won't be able to go home. Got no ship. My armor's about dead. Probably won't be able to find any work. I don't know what I'll do."

"Mm." Ambrose swivels back and forth in his chair. "If you know where to look, you can get another ship. It might not be as fancy as your old one, but there's plenty out there that can be had for relatively cheap. Probably find somebody who can fix up your armor, too. As far as work, there's always people needin' bounties caught. All you gotta do is go get 'em. Keep your head down. You'll have to dodge the Empire, but most out here have been doing that for years. You're good in a fight. That'll help."

"I suppose you know those people," Roman says, and he can't help a smile.

"I might know a few. Course…" Ambrose shrugs, sucks on a cuticle. "The Rebellion needs all the help it can get. You see what they're up against. I know there's no trust between you and them right now, but if you really wanted to get in on that, I bet you could earn your way in. They wouldn't make it easy on you, I'm sure, but that's something to think about."

"How would I do that, though? If I wanted to."

"You'd have to talk to Becky."

Roman grunts a humorless little laugh, scoops the last of the yellow mash out of the meal tray. "That won't happen anytime soon. Think she'd rather see me on the wrong end of a blaster, honestly."

"I could talk to her," Ambrose offers. "I can't guarantee it'd get you anywhere, but she'd at least listen."

"I think about it."

"Do that."

"Would you? If you weren't in debt to the Hutts, would you be out there with the Rebellion?"

Ambrose squints out the front viewer. "Hard to say. Knowin' me, I'd probably just be in trouble with someone else. Kinda my thing."

"What about a copilot?" Roman asks suddenly. He sets his empty tray on the floor beside the chair and swivels around. "You ever think about taking one on?"

"What, for the _Falcon_ here?"

"Yeah," Roman says, warming to the idea. "Another set of eyes to watch your back couldn't hurt, could it? Your droids are good, but they don't have the kind of reflexes a trained fighter would. Probably do you good to have someone around who could keep you out of trouble."

He expects Ambrose to flat-out reject the idea, but Ambrose spends a good few seconds chewing on it, swiveling lightly back and forth in his chair. "Never thought about it, no," he says at last. "Been flyin' solo almost my whole life. I really can look after myself. Might get into a lot of trouble, but I got a knack for getting out of it. As you saw. I'm still alive. I got the droids, anyway. That's been enough. 'Sides, someone like you, you'd be a lot better off out there bein' useful to the Rebellion. I'm sure you would be. Better that than scummin' around dodging Hutts and running cargo."

"Someone like me?" Roman questions.

"Fighter," Ambrose says. "You just said you'd rather fight to stay free than chase money anyway. You strike me as someone who'd really dedicate yourself to a cause you believed in. Fight with everything you got. That's what made you so effective at bounty hunting - no quit in you."

The back of his neck heating up, Roman looks over again. Finds Ambrose absently scratching at his collarbone. "How do you know that?"

Bright blue eyes meet his from the pilot's chair. "I heard stories, for one. For another, it's kinda obvious. You're - no offense, but you don't strike me as somebody who's very good at subterfuge. You'd rather deal with things head-on, right?" He flicks his chin at Roman's exposed arms. "You don't cover up. What you see is what you get. You're gonna fight your way through things. You're gonna throw yourself into whatever you believe in, and you won't stop until you get the job done. You're not loyal to the Empire. I believe that. The Rebellion, they'd see that soon enough."

"You think that's what I should do, then?"

"It's an option. You got those, is all I'm getting at."

"But staying here isn't one of them?" Roman asks before can help himself.

Ambrose seems genuinely perplexed when he asks, "Why would you want to? Job right now is a lot of risk for not much reward. I get by mostly on reputation. Bragging rights. Not that, y'know, I wouldn't appreciate another set of eyes around here or anything - 'specially ones as pretty as yours - but-"

" _Pretty_?" Roman chokes out. That's ridiculous. "My eyes are not _pretty_."

"Everything about you is pretty," Ambrose says easily. His dimples appear again just before he swivels forward again. Clearly feeling like himself now. "Including your weap-"

"Hey!" Roman subtly moves his hand over his lap.

"Aw, lighten up, pretty boy," Ambrose chuckles. "It's a compliment. You're pretty. But y'oughtta be out there fighting for something bigger 'n you, if that's what you wanna do. Or out catching bounties. Either way. You got about two days to figure it out, so think about it."

"I will," Roman says. "I'm not pretty."

That just makes Dean laugh harder. Roman really likes the sound of it, light and careless. "If you say so, pretty boy. If you say so."

"Stop calling me that, fool," Roman grumbles, trying his hardest not to smile. He squirms in his seat until he gets comfortable again. "And stop talking about my weapon."

"But it looks like it's a _nice_ weapon," Ambrose says.

From the doorway behind them, comes an exasperated, "Would you two just take it to one of the bunk rooms already?"

Both Roman and Ambrose jump, and turn around to look at Styles, who just rolls his eyes at them.

* * *

With Styles inexplicably back in the cockpit, conversation dies pretty quickly.

"Couldn't sleep," was what Styles said when he slumped back down into his chair. "Don't want Ambrose here to steer us into a meteor."

Ambrose had just rolled his eyes, while Roman cleared his throat and tried to settle flustered nerves.

All the poets in the galaxy tend to romanticize space travel as some wonderfully mythic thing: the journey to a new destination, traveling at speeds beyond comprehension, a new chance for hope, and all that nonsense.

Really, though, space travel is just being stuck in a bottle that's flying really fast.

It's dozens of hours cut off from communication (that's only possible at sub-light speeds, as anything that's communication at hyperspeed just comes out jumbled garbage on the other end) with nothing to do but walk around a ship that's usually got too-short ceilings, claustrophobic tight corridors, and cramped bunk rooms. As nice as hyperspace is to look at compared to the blank blackness of regular space, even that loses its charm after a few hours.

In his own ship, Roman had devised ways to pass the hours, everything from small internal repairs, to tinkering with his armor, to practicing his hand-to-hand combat techniques in one of his cargo bays, to reading. Sleeping, too, as he's often exhausted after days spent up chasing his bounties. Long voyages across the galaxy make for excellent opportunities to catch up on missed rest.

This isn't his ship, so he's got nothing to do but sit confined in the copilot's seat, steadfastly ignoring both Styles and the confusing jumble his thoughts have become around Ambrose. They're headaches he just doesn't need right now.

Ambrose is probably right, anyway: fighting alongside the Rebellion would give Roman a chance to do something good, to be part of something bigger. There's a small chance that the Empire doesn't even know he survived Tatooine and doesn't know he was involved in that mess on Endor, so they might not even realize he let Styles go, but that's too many _ifs_ and _maybes_ for his comfort. All it would take is one person recognizing him and reporting back to the Empire, and they'd know he not only survived but also failed to catch Styles.

Not to mention the Emperor and his ability to _see_ things.

If he's with the Rebels, at least he'd be protected and he'd be in a place where he could fight back.

But Ambrose, though.

He owes Ambrose his life, and maybe that's why staying seemed like an option, too.

Maybe.

The idea of leaving Ambrose alone to go back to running cargo when the Empire is probably going to be hunting for the _Falcon_ \- it doesn't sit right. One ship against the combined military force of the Empire wouldn't stand a chance, no matter how good her pilot is.

He's halfway to dozing when he hears Becky's husky voice drift in from the corridor. "-and we will. We just need to be patient."

"I still think it's a bad idea," Sasha says.

Roman lifts his head in time to see Ambrose swivel around. "What's a bad idea?"

A moment later, Becky and Sasha squeeze into the cockpit, the pair of them flanking the door. Sasha gives Roman an ugly look. "It's nothing."

Becky, meanwhile, doesn't hide close scrutiny of Ambrose's face. "Y'look better."

"I'm fine," he says curtly. "How's my ship?"

"She'll hold until we get to Bespin."

Ambrose lifts his chin. "I still think we'd be better off on Tatooine. You really wanna delay Styles gettin' back to your base by twenty-five hours? What if they're waitin' when I drop out to make the second jump? 'Sides that, the junkers on Tatooine are overloaded with parts for these old freighters. I'm sure Cesartoo could make it work."

"No guarantee there'd be anyone there who could take AJ to base, though," Becky points out. She looks tired. She and Sasha both do. They're cut up and bruised, clothes a little ripped, and bits of sticks and twigs still in their hair from Endor. Steel in their eyes, though. Roman admires that. "I can guarantee ya there'll be someone there who can leave just as soon as he's ready."

"I'm going with you, AJ," Sasha says. "No arguments."

"Wasn't gonna," Styles drawls. He's slouched back in his chair, pensively rubbing his chin. "'Preciate the backup." His pale gaze shifts to Roman. "Guess we're all settled on Sasha and me goin' as soon as we can."

Roman nods. "Get those plans to your base. Do what you have to. I'm not gonna stop you. The galaxy's freedom is worth more than a bounty."

"Awfully quick to change your tune, Reigns." Sasha swipes her hair back off her face, the pale red looking a little angry in her fist. "Suddenly you care about freedom? I don't buy it."

"I don't care if you do or not, Dusklighter," Roman tells her. "I'm not gonna get in your way on Bespin. That's all that matters. You and Styles, you can go do what you need to. Before you ask, it's because it means I stay alive if you bring down the Empire. If the Emperor finds out I had Styles in custody and I let him go, I'm dead. It won't matter that I was outnumbered or that his own troops tried to kill me. I'm dead. So I got a vested interest in seeing the Rebellion succeed. That, and contrary to what you might think, I do wanna keep my freedom."

"Then why would you take jobs from the Empire?" Becky challenges, her eyes flashing.

"It was just something my family always taught me," Roman admits. "You never turn away work. You just take it, and you don't ask questions. Like all of you probably took work once. You need the money, so you just do whatever the job requires. I never really stopped to think about what I was doing. I just did my job. I got good at it. I earned a reputation that made my family proud. Being hand-selected by the Emperor for a mission - that's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I'm not gonna question it or say no. The Emperor, he's real persuasive. He made Styles out to be some kinda terrible criminal that _had_ to be stopped or some real bad things would happen."

Styles hums thoughtfully. "Some real bad things are gonna happen, all right. To him."

Becky clears her throat, shifts. "Does that make any sense t'you, though, AJ? Why, if the Emperor has that massive military, is he just sendin' a single bounty hunter after you?"

"How do we know he _did_?" Ambrose puts in. He's chewing a cuticle again, frowning at Roman. "It's the Emperor. You really think he's just gonna trust this job to one guy? No offense, Roman. I don't buy it. But it makes sense he's using bounty hunters. You take somebody like Roman, who kinda knows his way around people like us, he's gonna have a lot easier time picking up AJ's trail than a military that's just out there kicking open doors. That tracks. What I don't get is what just happened back on Endor. How did they know you were there?"

Sasha straightens away from the door, hand sliding down to her blaster. "Reigns could have told them."

Roman looks her dead in the eye. "Last they heard from me, I had Styles' ship disabled on Tatooine. I never told them anything about Endor. I didn't think I needed to. I thought I had the situation contained. Clearly not. Styles blew up my ship before I had a chance to get a message off. I've been with Ambrose ever since."

"Before anybody says it," Ambrose says, "I didn't know anything about anything. All I knew was he needed a ride to Endor. He didn't say why or what he was after. I didn't find out until we ran into that first Star Destroyer."

"Nobody was gonna accuse you of that, Dean," Sasha tells him, her expression thawing for the first time. "We know you wouldn't do that."

"Could it have been one of your own?" Roman suggests carefully. "I'm not saying it _was_ , but is there any possibility someone on your side gave away what you were doing?"

"I s'pose anythin' is possible," Becky says, but her tone tells him she doesn't believe it. "I don't know. What I do know is we're settled on this, then. AJ, Reigns - you two just leave each other be while you're here. When we get to Bespin, Reigns, we'll decide where you go from there."

"He's a good fighter, Becks." Ambrose swivels back and forth in his chair in a way that makes him look like a young kid. It's completely at odds with the seriousness of his expression. "You need those. I know you don't trust him, but if he's willing to cut ties with the Empire, and he really believes in the cause, you might think about it. You need all the help you can get."

Becky sizes Roman up in a long look. "No, I don't trust him. Do you?"

"I don't trust anybody," Ambrose answers, "but don't believe for a second he's Empire. My gut tells me he's exactly the kinda fighter you need on your side."

"You'll forgive me if I don't trust your gut on this one, Dean," Styles says from the back seat. "You ain't exactly impartial where Reigns is concerned."

"What does that mean?" Becky asks.

" _Nothing_ ," Ambrose snaps, giving Styles a hard look. "My judgment is fine."

Styles snorts. "You wanna climb Reigns like those Ewoks back there on Endor climbed their _trees_. You said he was pretty. It was so sweet I could just about hit myself."

Roman happens to be looking at the doorway - at Sasha and Becky - when Styles says this, so he sees the change in Becky's expression: the way her eyes narrow with suspicion, and her forehead pinches into a frown. Sasha's face just becomes a picture of disbelief, like she doesn't know what she's hearing.

"He is pretty," Ambrose says calmly.

"I'm _not_ pretty," Roman growls. His face his warm, and he's a little glad the lights in the cockpit are dim.

"You're pretty." Ambrose is completely unrepentant. If he didn't have a bandage on his arm, Roman would have punched him right there. "But that's like saying I got five fingers on my hand. It's a fact. Got nothin' to do with me sayin' I don't think he's Empire. If he really wanted to, AJ, he could've disappeared with you back on Endor. He didn't. He stuck it out. He's letting you go. That matters."

"Keeping our freedom is more important than a bounty," Roman says for himself. "I'm willing to fight for it, if it comes down to it. I'm not Empire. Never was, and I never will take work from them again. I don't know what I want to do yet, but-" he turns to specifically address Becky and Styles "-I want to put it out there that I _would_ be willing to join you if it means making the Galaxy a better place. I've had my head down for a long time. Too long. I see now. We don't trust each other, but we don't know each other. We could."

"Think about it," Ambrose tells them. "You got a couple days. Don't need to make any decisions now. In fact, Becks, you look like you're about to pass on your feet. Why don't you and Sasha go clean up and hit the bunks?"

Becky ventures deeper into the cockpit, pausing right behind the other empty chair. "What about you? If anybody needs sleep, it's you. How's your arm?"

Ambrose lifts it and rotates his shoulder. "Hurts, but it's not that serious. I've had worse. I'll live. I ate. I'll sleep after you do. We'll trade off."

"Why not just get Cesartoo up here to keep an eye on things?" Becky asks. "We're thirteen hours away from the jump. Everythin' is stable with the engines. If anythin' goes wrong, he'll let us know. We can all sleep. We all need it. It's been a long day. When Ambrose opens his mouth to say something, she whips up a hand. "Don't argue with me, Deano. You're about dead in that chair there. I'll carry you, if I have to."

"Let Pretty Boy do it," Styles says, bouncing to his feet. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"You call me that again, Styles," Roman says, just as deadly serious as he can manage, "and you're gonna wake up missing body parts."

He must be losing his edge because Styles just grins at him. "Whatever you say, ya pretty li'l thang."

"Get out of my cockpit," Ambrose says before Roman can answer. Captain Ambrose there. "All of you. Out. Get some sleep."

Becky moves to block the door. "Get Cesartoo up here first."

Ambrose raises eyebrows at her. "You don't give me orders on my own ship, Becks. You wouldn't stand for it if I did that to you."

"It's not a bad idea, though," Roman says reasonably. "You got shot, Captain. You need sleep, too, and we're in hyperspace. We'll be fine. Cesar2-D2 can keep watch. It'll be all right."

"All kidding aside, you do look you're about done, Dean," Styles says from beside Sasha.

"That tends to happen when people shoot you, AJ," Ambrose retorts. "And hit you over the head with a rock. Every one of my injuries is your fault. You don't get to say anything to me. I'm banning you from my cockpit."

Styles raises both hands. "I'm sorry, Dean. It was nothing personal, you know. I got no quarrel with you. I was just doin' what I thought I had to to survive."

"You're still banned from my cockpit," Ambrose says. He almost looks like he's sulking. "All of you are banned from my cockpit. You're ganging up on me."

"It's called concern, you idiot," Styles says. "You have a head injury and you're flying this ship. That's a bad combination."

Roman swivels around to look at Ambrose. "I'm exhausted, Captain. We all are. You are, too, and you know it. I can see it. Your ship will be all right for a few hours."

"This is mutiny," Ambrose grumbles, but he reaches up for the overhead 'comm anyway. "Cesartoo, would you come up to the cockpit, please?"

A minute later, the domed little guy trundles up into the cockpit, maneuvering his way between Becky and Sasha with surprising grace. He beeps a question at Ambrose, who says, "We're all gonna get some shut-eye. Keep an eye on the helm. Put it in lockdown. Protocol 7-7-4. Nobody unlocks anything on this ship except me."

He starts to rise, but pauses to look at his viewer screen when Cesartoo trills another question at him.

A surprising soft smile breaks its way through Ambrose's clear fatigue, and he pats the top of Cesartoo's dome. "I'm all right. Thanks."

Cesartoo hums and rolls forward to jack into one of the ports on the pilot's console.

Ambrose walks around him and joins everyone at the door. "All right, everybody get out of my cockpit. Go, you buncha slobbering nerfs. Go." He squeezes past everyone and heads down the narrow main corridor.

Roman moves to join him at the front. "I am _not_ pretty," he says quietly. "Stop saying that."

"Nope," Ambrose says.

"I'm bunkin' with the ladies," Styles announces from behind them. "I don't even wanna get in the middle of whatever's gonna happen when the lights go out in _your_ bunk room. I might be scarred for life."

" _Sleep_." Roman turns long enough to glare. His fists are just itching to lash out. "All that's gonna happen is sleep. Shut your mouth, Styles, before I do us all a favor and do it for you."

"But you're so _pretty_ when you're mad, Reigns," Styles says, fluttering his lashes.

"Leave it, AJ," Ambrose growls, "or I might make good on that promise to space you. You three take that room there." He points at the closer of the two bunk rooms. "That leaves Roman and me in the far one. If you're hungry, you know where the galley is. We're stocked up enough for ten days, so eat as much as you want. Don't have much for spare clothes, but the washer unit and the shower still work. Need anything else, call Seth-3PO. Make his Highness do some work around here."

With that, they split off, with Ambrose and Roman head into the bunk room ahead.

Like everything on this ship, it's a narrow wedge of a room with four bunks built into the walls - two on each wall, with an aisle between them so tight Roman has to turn sideways to fit through it.

Ambrose doesn't immediately close the door, though, once they're inside. He pokes his head out into the corridor, head cocked like he's listening for something.

Roman sits down on one of the two lower bunks and starts taking off his boots. "What are you doing?"

"Wonderin' if Seth and his helpers have cleared out of that other bunk room yet," Ambrose says. "Hopefully they haven't."

"It's been a few hours," Roman says. "You'd think they'd be done-"

" _Do you mind_?!" Seth-3PO screeches suddenly, voice echoing down the corridor. "I was in here _first_!"

"Droid, I don't know what it was you think you were doin' in here," Styles hollers after him, "but do it somewhere else! People gotta sleep in here! That's just… We don't need to see that!"

"Excuse _me_!" Seth-3PO snits right back. "They're _cleaning_ me. I'm _filthy_. Still."

"You're somethin', all right," Styles drawls from the corridor. "Get outta here, droid."

Seth-3PO _hmmphs_. "Jamie, Joey, let's go. Surely there's _somewhere_ on this ship a droid-king and his subjects can have some privacy."

"Bunk room next door's empty," Styles says.

"AJ, I hope you know how to breathe in a vacuum," Ambrose calls back. "And you, yer Majesty, go to the engine compartment. It's empty now. You and your subjects can finish doing...whatever you're doing in privacy."

" _Cleaning_!" Seth-3PO yells. He sounds like he's close to sparking from the outrage.

"If you say so, your Highness," Ambrose deadpans.

He backs into the room and busts out laughing, loud and hearty, leaning on the door to keep himself upright.

Try as he might, Roman can't help but join in.

* * *

Sleep is the only thing that actually does happen in the bunk room.

Once the laughter dries up and Ambrose sits down on his own bunk to take his boots off, it's like everything he's been holding back settles in on him at once. His shoulders slump like they're too heavy to keep up and all the expression leaves his face. He sits for a good minute just staring at the floor between his feet, silent and unmoving.

It's a place Roman's been many times in his life:

That first moment you have to really slow down after something huge and nearly life-ending happens, when what just happened - what almost happened - sinks in, and _I almost died_ and _I can't believe I survived_ start to drown everything out.

That kind of thinking can drown somebody.

They're not quite sitting face to face, but they're close enough that Roman doesn't have to stretch to touch Dean's shoulder. "You all right?"

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it go in a noisy rush. "That was close."

"You got us out of it."

"We all did." Gruff. Quiet. "That was all of us. Except AJ. Idiot just spend the whole time back-seat piloting me. I was tempted to slam on the brakes to try to knock him out." Ambrose peeks up through the shaggy fringe of his hair. "'Bout you? You good?"

Roman opens his mouth to give the automatic yes, but makes himself stop and think about it. What he comes up with instead is, "I don't know. Letting Styles go is the right thing to do. That's fine. The rest, I couldn't tell you. What a day. What a _week_."  He pauses and tosses his boots under the bunk, thinking he's done with his answer, but something else comes out.  "I miss my ship. I know it's just a ship, but…"

"They get so they're part of you," Dean says, and he says it in a way that Roman can tell means he gets it. "Losin' one is like losin' a piece of yourself. I know. I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Roman says.

He's still got his hand on Dean's shoulder. As much as he wants to leave it there, though, he withdraws it and settles it back on his own leg. Reminds himself again that it's probably just that rush of fellow-feeling from their shared near-death experience.

"You should get some sleep," Ambrose says at last. He scoots back on his bunk. "Pretty boys need it."

"Call me that again, you scruffy-looking nerf-herder, I'm not gonna be responsible for what I do to you."

That earns him a ghost of a smile. "Who's scruffy-looking?"

"Go to sleep, Cap'n," Roman says, stretching himself out.

Wonder of wonders, he does, breathing slowing and evening out almost before Roman finishes unbuckling his armor.

It's a minor miracle.


	14. Escape (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Nother update. End of one arc and the beginning of another. :)

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** XIV. Escape (III)

In order to travel at faster-than-light speeds, ships need two things: a hyperdrive engine capable of getting up to hyperspeeds, and a clear path on which to travel.

While ships can travel just about anywhere at sub-light speeds, it's different at much faster hyperspeeds. Ships' shields are strong enough to repel small debris in hyperspace, but it's impossible to maneuver a ship around a planet or through a field of asteroids going that fast.

Most hyperspace travel in the Galaxy takes place in well-known and well-established hyperspace lanes (hyperlanes), routes that have been designated as clear of gravity wells, planets, stars, and debris fields that might destroy a ship. They're not always the most direct routes between destinations, is the trouble. To get from one planet to a distant destination sometimes requires ships to drop out of hyperlane and jump onto another.

On a map, Endor is much closer to Bespin than it is Tatooine, but in actual reality, there are several massive asteroid fields and many planets preventing direct travel from Endor to Bespin. Traveling directly to Tatooine from Ednor can be accomplished in a single jump. Travel to Bespin from Endor requires travelling for roughly twenty hours along one hyperlane, dropping out of hyperspace, and then catching the Corelian Trade hyperlane, which goes up by Bespin.

Roman spends about twelve hours of that initial twenty asleep, his body still catching up on several weeks' rest and recovering from the general stress of the last few days.

He spends most of the rest of that twenty sitting in the lounge with Cesar2-D2, the pair of them doing their best to salvage what they can of his armor. Every now and again, either Becky or Sasha or Styles drift by alone or in pairs, all of them clearly curious as to what he's doing. They don't ask what he's doing and he doesn't really do much but nod at them, content for the time being just to let everything stay as-is. Fixing his armor - or at least getting to some semblance of working order - seems like it's more important right now.

They leave him alone.

Evidently Ambrose wasn't kidding about everyone being banned from the cockpit; Roman hears Becky and Styles both swearing colorfully when they head up that way and find the cockpit sealed off and locked. Roman's man enough to admit he gets a charge out of their outrage. There's also a certain relief in knowing that they're not bothering Ambrose right now.

As strange as it is, things on the ship feel calm. Not exactly _peaceful_ , but _settled_.

The others keep to their bunks and the galley, and Roman doesn't really pay attention to their chatter, as busy as he is trying not to make the damage any worse inside his vest. His hands are about three sizes too big to be replacing the fussy, delicate wiring, but it's either that or he goes without. Cesartoo is great to work with, too, directing Roman to where they've got spare wiring (there's abundance now that some of the terminals aren't aren't working) and the tools they need. He even comes up with alternate ways to wire things that gets the armor's temperature regulator and the deflector shield to a more stable state than they had been before. Because the power crystal is damaged, he can only use one at a time, but that's a whole

" _They may have parts on Bespin,"_ Cesartoo tells him afterward, the words appearing on the screen behind where Roman's sitting. " _It will hold until then._ "

"Would you be able to fix it if they did?" Roman asks. "Or at least tell me what to do so I can?"

" _Yes, but you would have to repair the fabric yourself._ "

"I can handle that," Roman says, slipping the armor back on. It powers up with a relatively smooth and quiet hum. "Feels good. Thank you."

He's not sure it's ever going to not be strange to thank a droid, or to have one swivel its domed head like it's pleased and twitter, " _You're welcome._ "

"How much longer until the next jump point?"

" _Forty-four minutes_."

"I'll have to head into the turret here in a bit," Roman says. "I just hope we don't have trouble."

Cesartoo's answer is a quiet beep of agreement. There's a pause, and then he offers a tentative, " _You should stay_."

Roman still adjusting his armor's chest strap, freezes, eyes glued to the screen. "Stay."

" _Here_." Cesartoo still sounds unsure. " _The Empire knows this ship now. We will have more trouble - more than Captain can handle alone_."

"You don't think I'm an Imperial spy, huh? Everyone else seems to."

" _No,_ " is the immediate reply. It's firm and decisive, and warms Roman right on through. " _Neither does Captain. It would help. You fight well_. _We need that._ "

"He mentioned there's some other trouble, too," Roman says after a moment's thought. "Problem is, he wasn't very receptive when I brought that up to him earlier. I did actually think about it. Trying to figure out my options after Bespin. I'm not sure what I'm going to do yet."

" _Stay_." Urgent now. Cesartoo rolls so he's butted up against the table like a child leaning closer to beg their parents for a treat. " _Captain is stubborn. Be more stubborn_."

Chuckling, Roman says, "I don't know if that's actually possible."

Cesartoo chortles himself. " _Maybe not. But try._ "

"I'll think about it." Roman sits back on the couch and looks out into the corridor. It's gone awfully quiet. "Like I said, I haven't decided what I want to do yet, but that's an option. If so, I'll do my best."

" _If nothing else_ ," Cesartoo replies, " _I could lock him in the cockpit and let you board before we take off_."

Roman laughs again. "And here I thought Seth-3PO was the handful. You're the real trouble, aren't you?"

" _Always the quiet ones you have to watch for_ ," Cesartoo beeps agreeably, the words twinkling merrily on the screen. They disappear in a flourish as he backs away from the table and rolls away from the lounge. Still tittering to himself, of course.

And Roman shakes his head, smiling after him.

Every bit of this ship is trouble, but he's not sure that's such a bad thing: life around here would probably never be dull. It would certainly be a big change, though, from riding alone in his own ship. He'd grown used to the peace and quiet that came with travelling alone, and it'd probably take some getting used to, being on ship with a crew.

But if it means keeping Captain Ambrose alive long enough to pay off his life-debt, it might be worth it.

It just might.

* * *

Roman retreats to his bunk to pace away his tension, to think some more.

Thinking doesn't happen, much.

A feeling of unease begins to settle over him about twenty minutes before they're due to reach the jump point, and he doesn't understand why.  This should be easy.  He himself has made hyperlane transfers like this countless times on his own ship.  It seldom takes more than a few minutes, provided he didn't meet other ships waiting to go.  Even then, the lanes are big enough to accommodate dozens of ships.  It's one of the simplest things a pilot can do.  It's automatic.

So he has no idea why he feels dread spreading like ice through his body.

He's generally not easy to startle, but he nearly leaps out of his skin when Captain Ambrose's voice comes over the 'comm: "We're about fifteen minutes from the jump.  Roman, Seth, head to the turrets.  Everybody else, you're temporarily unbanned from the cockpit.  Come on up and strap yourselves down.  Seth, strap your critters in at the lounge table."

"They're not _critters_ ," Seth-3PO snits from somewhere in the ship.  "They're Ewoks."

"Just make sure they're secure, yer Highness.  It's what a responsible deity would do."

Seth-3PO just huffs in irritation.

Meanwhile, Roman lets himself out of his bunk room, and slips quietly past Styles and Becky, both of whom eye him coolly.  Sasha, on the other hand, steps right into his path.  "I lost the man I love and four of my closest friends back on Endor," she says quietly.  "They tell me it's not your fault, and maybe it's not, but you and people like you are the reason this keeps happening.  And if you think for even one second about sabotaging us between here and Bespin, you won't live long enough to regret it."

Roman regards her for a long moment, taking in the shadows on her face, the fatigue, the heaviness in her shoulders.  Her hostility makes sense.  He doesn't blame her a bit for it.  Losses don't get much worse than that.  "I'm sorry for your loss," he eventually tells her.  "Truly.  All of you," he adds, glancing at Becky and AJ, "because I know they were your friends.  You have my word I have no intentions of sabotaging anything.  I don't know where my path will take me next, but on my honor, it won't be in your way.  That I can promise you.  I hope that can be enough."

Sasha's stony expression doesn't change by an eyelash.  "We'll see," is all she says before she turns on her heel and heads off for the cockpit.

Styles nods wordlessly at Roman and follows Sasha.  Becky, meanwhile, gives Roman a careful look.  "Let's just get past this jump point," she says, "and then we'll go from there.  For what it's worth, it can be enough.  But we'll hold you to your word."

"I expect nothing less," Roman tells her.  "I should head up."

"Keep the cannons pointed away from the ship, eh?"  There's a smile in her voice when she says it, though, that takes the sting out of it.

"I will," Roman chuckles.

He heads for the central ladder, where he finds Seth-3PO waiting.  He's all shiny, Seth-3PO is, his gold plating buffed to a near-mirror finish.

"You look good," Roman can't help noting.  "Your helpers did a good job."

Seth-3PO squares his shoulders.  "They're very diligent subjects.  Very loyal.  I'll need help getting back out.  Jamie and Joey are strapped in.  They won't be able to hoist me when we're done."

"No problem, your - uh, Seth-3PO."

"Not you, too," Seth-3PO huffs.  "I can see Captain Ambrose is a bad influence on you."  He pauses.  "Cesartoo tells me he asked you to stay.  I can't say I think that's the _best_ idea he's had, but if the captain is going to pick up a co-pilot, I suppose you're tolerable."

"I'm glad you approve," Roman says dryly.  "I haven't made up my mind yet."

"We do need a co-pilot on this ship," Seth-3PO says, reaching for the ladder.  "For what it's worth."

He slides down into the lower turret, leaving Roman to squeeze his way to the upper.  It's just as tight a fit as it was before, with Roman's bare shoulders and his back right up tight to the insides of the shaft all the way up.

Getting up into the turret is a relief, like finally being able to take a breath after being trapped underwater for too long.  Short-lived relief, though, because he no sooner sits down in the chair than that unease crawls up his spine again, like some kind of cold, slow-moving insect.

While the lasers' stick controls move freely in all directions - just the way they should - the targeting computer fails to turn on altogether when he tries to power it up.  He taps the side of it a few times, and realizes he can smell burnt circuitry coming from the back of it.  It probably got overloaded at some point, and he just didn't realize it.

Not exactly an auspicious start.

After he gets himself strapped in, Roman gazes out into the shifting white of hyperspace and says, "Captain, just so you know, I don't have a targeting computer up here. It's completely dead."

He figures Ambrose probably has the 'comm channel open, and he's right. Ambrose swears colorfully from the cockpit. " _That's great.  Well, the system shows the cannons are operational, at least.  You'll have to aim manually.  Seth? What's your status_?"

"Operational," Seth-3PO says, and for once there's no real edge in his voice. "Computer is online and ready. I'd suggest we switch, but it would take too long to get me into the upper turret."

" _Yeah_." Ambrose's gusty sigh carries across the 'comm in a crackle of static. " _That's all right. I doubt we're going to run into trouble here, anyway. This is just a precautionary measure. Stay sharp, everyone._ "

"How are you feeling?" Roman asks.

" _I_ thought _I was fine_ ," Ambrose replies, " _but_ somebody _here didn't agree with me. I just had a pain pack shoved down my throat. Tastes lovely when you do that, by the way_."

Roman hears Becky huff in the background. " _You were paler 'n your shirt, Deano._ "

" _The bacta is working fine_ ," Ambrose protests. " _My arm barely even hurts_."

" _It's not your arm I'm concerned about, ya stubborn bantha._ "

Becky's voice is warm, affectionate, and Roman's hands tighten on the quad lasers' stick controls. " _Anyway_ , Captain," he says gruffly, "I need to talk to you - alone - after we change lanes here. Can I be unbanned from the cockpit?"

" _You were never banned_ ," Ambrose informs him. " _It was just everybody else. 'Specially Helmet Head here._ "

" _Helmet Head_?" This a strangled yell from Styles. " _What-? I am not a helmet head_."

" _You are, too_ ," Ambrose says. " _Your hair looks like a helmet._ "

" _It does not_ ," Styles retorts.

" _Does too_."

" _Does not_."

" _Does too_." Captain Ambrose is clearly a paragon of maturity. Roman can actually picture the man sticking his tongue out just to be even more ridiculous. " _And I'm the captain, so if I say it, it's true._ " There's a pause, and, " _What was I talking about_?"

"I needed to talk to you," Roman says, trying to get comfortable in the seat. It's a little out of alignment. "Privately."

" _Probably about his privates_ ," Styles puts in.

"Shut up," Roman and Ambrose say in unison.

" _In any case_ ," Ambrose goes on, completely ignoring Styles' mocking laughter (and Seth-3PO's derisive snort), " _Becky wants us all to sit down for a talk after we make the jump_."

"Oh, she does, does she," Roman says flatly. His knuckles are white around the stick controls.

Ambrose either doesn't hear or doesn't notice Roman's tone. " _She does. But we can come back up here afterward and talk. Everybody else is still banned. Cesartoo will stand watch._ "

" _Childish_ ," Styles says.

" _That's Captain Childish to you, Helmet Head_ ," Ambrose says. " _Now be quiet. We'll be dropping out of hyperspeed in two minutes. Everybody hang on_." There's a pause that lasts roughly five seconds, and then Ambrose's voice fills the turret again. " _What'd you wanna talk to me about? I have my earpiece in, by the way. They can't hear you now._ "

Roman rubs his eyes, tries to shake off the strange sense of unease. "Something Cesar2-D2 and I were talking about earlier. It'll keep. It's not an emergency."

" _You sure? You sound...tense._ "

"Something doesn't feel right," Roman admits, idly swiveling the quad lasers off to his left. "I don't know. I can't shake it."

" _You either, huh? Sasha said the same thing. Jumpy. We'll be all right. I've made this transfer a thousand times and I've never had one problem with it. Turns out I'm pretty good at flying ships._ "

"It's not your piloting I'm worried about, Captain, believe me. You've earned my respect there. Something else feels strange. I'm not sure what, though. I can't put my finger on it. But speaking of piloting, you ought to focus on that. We'll talk later."

" _All right_ ," Ambrose says easily enough. " _Thanks_."

"For what?"

There's no answer, of course, and Roman can't say he's all that surprised.

* * *

It's not all right.

Ambrose counts them down and, up in the turret, Roman braces himself for that horrible deceleration, hands deathgripping the controls. Through slitted eyes, he watches space stretch out like a string being pulled tight and then slowly begin to come back into focus.

At first glance, it's fine: blackness speckled with distant stars, with a planet or two not all that far away.

He hears Ambrose swear over the 'comm again, and that's when he sees it: four Star Destroyers and a whole armada of TIE-Fighters hovering between the _Millennium Falcon_ and where the hyperlane to Bespin should be. There has to be two hundred or better of those little H-shaped ships out there, their weapons all trained on the Falcon.

It's a trap, Roman realizes sickly, and they've flown right into it.

Something hits the ship with enough force to throw Roman forward in his seat. He hits his chin on the control stick, and feels blood begin to seep out.

"Ambrose!" he yells, desperately swinging the cannons around.

" _Tractor beams_ ," Ambrose says without a single bit of inflection. " _They've locked onto us with tractors. They're pulling us in._ "

As he says this, Roman notices they're being tugged toward the closest Star Destroyer, slow and steady.

" _Break free_!" Styles snaps. " _Make the jump_."

" _I can't_ ," Ambrose snaps back. " _If I tried to go into hyperspeed right now, the ship would blow apart. Her hull's too damaged. We don't have the shields. We'd be vaporized before you could even blink. They got two beams on us. Even if we did have my primary hyperdrive, full shields, and no damage to the hull, I don't think we could make this._ "

" _Escape pods, then,"_ Styles says. " _Let me go_."

" _They're gone_ ," Ambrose replies grimly. " _They got shot off back at Endor. Roman, Seth, get out of the turrets. Get up here as fast as you can. Hurry. I don't think we have much time. We need to figure out what we're gonna do now. Doesn't look like they're plannin' to kill us - 'cuz they'd have done it already - but-_ "

" _They will_ ," Sasha cuts in. " _They'll kill us. Eventually_."

Roman throws his restraints off and makes for the ladder just as Becky says, " _What are we gonna do_?"

" _I have no idea_ ," Ambrose says.

Closing his eyes, Roman sends up a silent prayer and begins his descent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh...


	15. Capture (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're caught.

**XV. Capture (I)**

Roman's not exactly gentle about hauling Seth-3PO up out of the ladder shaft, but this time, Seth-3PO has the sense not to complain - not even when he scuffs his entire right arm against the ladder.

"Go," is all he says to Roman once his heavy feet set down on the decking. "I have to go find Jamie and Joey."

"You do that," Roman says, turning to sprint for the cockpit.

When he skids to a stop just inside the door, his stomach drops out altogether at the sheer enormity of the wedge-shaped Star Destroyer hovering just out their front viewer window.

Nobody inside the cockpit is moving or speaking.

They're all just staring like they're caught in a trance.

"What are we doing?" Roman barks.

Ambrose shakes himself and swivels around. His eyes are huge and his face is ashy. "We don't know yet. I've blocked their scanners and jammed their 'comms, but they got us locked in. We're not breakin' out of this. We got about nine minutes before they have us docked inside that thing. I got bombs and blasters, so we can try to ambush them and fight our way out once they get us inside and unlock the tractors."

"That's one idea," Styles says from the co-pilot's seat at Ambrose's left. He's just as pale, but calm, gaze still locked on the approaching Star Destroyer. "But they knew we were gonna be here, so they'll probably be prepared for that. There's thousands of troopers on that ship. No way we're gonna be able to brute-force our way out of it."

"How did they know?" Sasha demands. She's right behind Ambrose, her blaster out in her lap, and there's fury in her eyes when she swings around to look at Roman. " _How did they know, Reigns_?"

"How should I know?" Roman asks between his teeth. "I've been back in the bunk area for the last twenty hours. And we were in hyperspace. I couldn't have sent out a transmission. I didn't. This wasn't me."

"It _wasn't_ ," Ambrose cuts in. "No transmissions have gone out since we jumped back at Endor. Cesartoo would have caught it and alerted me, anyway. Nothing has gone out. It's not Roman. We're wasting time here. We got eight minutes. So far all we got is a bad plan and nothing. What are we doing?"

Styles turns to regard Ambrose for a second, blue eyes to blue, and eventually Styles says, "You got smugglin' holds on this ship, right?"

Of course he would, Roman thinks.  Ambrose is, after all, a _smuggler_.  Hiding things is his business.

And, of course, Ambrose nods.  "I have a couple of 'em.  What are you thinking?"

"Not damaged in the fight back there? They heat-shielded? Will they show up on manual scanners?"

"They're shielded and soundproofed," Ambrose says. "They're right back-"

"Don't tell me where they are," Styles cuts him off. He digs into the collar of his shirt and pulls out a chain necklace. Attached to it by a small clip is a small, square data chip no bigger than two of Roman's fingers put together. Swiveling around in his chair, he drops the necklace around Becky's neck. "I couldn't transmit these plans when we got them. Tower broke before I could send 'em out. I was the only one from my squad to make it off the planet. My ship got pretty badly damaged on the way out. That's why I had to stop over at Endor. We tried to transmit the files from there, but the encryption on them made it impossible. We'd just decided we were gonna fly 'em back to base when you showed up. When it all fell apart.

"Here's the plan," he goes on, firm and resolute, "Dean, you take everybody and you hide them in your holds. I'll stay up here and pilot the ship. Alone. Becky, you gotta get those plans back to base."

Becky, who'd reached up to touch the necklace, freezes. "AJ-"

"It's me they're after," Stlyes says. He swivels back to Ambrose again. "If they don't find a pilot with the ship here, they'll tear the whole thing apart until they find us all. If it's just me, that should give you time to find a way out of here. I know you don't want any part of this, Dean, but you're in it now. Y'all gotta figure out a way to get yourselves outta here."

Before anyone can answer, Roman straightens, realization hitting him. "You don't have to do that, Styles. If they find me here - just me - then that ought to give you even more time to find a way out. I can stall them."

Four sets of eyes turn to him.

In the distance, the Star Destroyer draws closer and closer.

"Seven minutes," Ambrose says, not blinking. It looks as if he'd been hit over the head again, the way he's just dazed and sprung-jawed. "Roman…"

"I told you I wasn't gonna get in the way," Roman tells them with as much dignity as he can muster. "That way nobody would have to sacrifice themselves. Styles, you can see your mission through yourself." He glances at Ambrose. It's harder than he expected. This will probably get him killed. "Then we'll be square."

Styles shakes his head. "I appreciate that, Reigns, but I don't think they'll trust that. If you're workin' for 'em why would you have fought your way off of Endor in this ship? Why not just surrender yourself to 'em and tell 'em who you were? I don't think they'll believe it. They'll come lookin. It's more believable if it's me. You wanna do the right thing, then you help them figure out how to get this ship free. That's how you prove yourself. Don't argue. This is how we're doing this."

Becky and Sasha both look helplessly at Styles, who regards them calmly from his seat. There's a stubborn set to his jaw that Roman knows means nothing short of clubbing him over the head and dragging him off to the cargo hold will change his mind.

"Six minutes," Ambrose says. "Anybody got anything better? 'Cuz if not, then we gotta go. We're gettin' close enough they can actually see in here. If they spot us, this is all gonna be for nothing."

"AJ," Becky says again, and it sounds like she's on the verge of tears. "Are you sure about this?"

"No," Styles says with a broken little laugh. "I ain't sure about anything, but… The mission. It's bigger 'n all of us. You gotta stop that planet-killer weapon. Those plans _have_ to get to base. They're worth more than all of us. Whatever it takes, Starskipper, you gotta make this happen. You, too, Dusklighter," he adds to Sasha. "I'm counting on you. Get those plans to the Alliance."

"I will," Sasha says fiercely.

Becky all but throws herself at AJ, wrapping him up in a tight hug. "We will."

Ambrose quietly gets up from the captain's chair and makes his way back around to Roman, as grim and sober as Roman's ever seen him. "Let's give 'em a minute, huh? Let's go get the droids loaded in the holds." He pauses, though, and looks around. Briefly meets Styles' gaze over Becky's shoulder. "We'll find a way, AJ. One way or the other. We'll get 'em home."

"Whatever it takes," Roman puts in. He means that.

Styles nods. "You better, Captain Childish, or I'll find you in the afterlife and show you how to really be a pain in the rear."

"Good luck, Helmet Head," Ambrose says, not smiling. "Roman, come on."

"You better be worth it, Reigns," Styles says, reaching over for Sasha, who looks like she can't decide whether she wants to punch Styles or hug him. "You better be."

"I will be," Roman promises. "My word on that."

 _Lady, let it be so_ , he prays, bowing his head. _Watch over him. Be with us all_.

* * *

The _Millennium Falcon's_ smuggling holds turn out to be located on either side of the central ladder, the lids cleverly hidden beneath hinged deck plates. If someone didn't know what they were looking at, they'd swear it was just solid decking with nothing underneath.

Getting everyone loaded up uses three of their remaining minutes, Ambrose hastily tossing down spare food and water, lightsticks, and weapons into the holds as everyone gets in. Becky and Sasha take the left hold with Seth-3PO and the two little Ewoks. Since Cesartoo is tall enough to actually stand upright in the hold, Ambrose offers to take the two Ewoks, since they'll have more space in the right hold, but Seth is adamant about keeping "his subjects" together. A thick-voiced Becky says it's no problem.

Ambrose seals them in and hops down into the second hold, quickly locking the deck plates into place and sliding the hold's lid shut.

It's not a very big hold, all things considered.

Roman can't stand up in it, but he can sit without his head brushing the ceiling. He can stretch his legs out, too, which is nice. He could almost lay down, if he wanted to, but he doesn't. Needs to be ready in case something happens.

There's exactly zero light in here, though, so Roman hears rather than sees Ambrose sit down beside him. Ambrose fumbles around for something, and after just a second or two, a small yellow lantern flares alight. It's pretty weak - not much brighter than a couple of candles, but Roman appreciates it nonetheless.

"This isn't an airtight hold, is it?" he asks suddenly.

"No," Ambrose says, setting the lamp down between his knee and Roman's. It leaves his face mostly shadow. "I've smuggled people in here before. Had one guy stay for almost a week. He was fine, other than it got pretty ripe in here. I did sterilize it."

Roman takes a deep breath. "I don't smell anything off."

Ambrose's soap, maybe, and the leather from his vest. His own armor.

Not important, anyway. He shifts a little closer to the light, his shoulder brushing Ambrose's. Ambrose doesn't move away.

"You and Sasha, you knew this was comin," Ambrose says then.

"I didn't," Roman says. "I just didn't feel right about it, is all. There's nothing you could have done."

"I could have dropped us out of hyperspace earlier, maybe," Ambrose says. "This shouldn't have happened. AJ shouldn't have to do this. You shouldn't have had to, either."

"Hey." Roman reaches up to squeeze Ambrose's shoulder. "The only way you could have done that is if you had more than two minutes' warning. You would have needed at least a half an hour to make a difference. There's no point in being angry with yourself about it. Be angry at the Empire. We wouldn't be in this situation if not for them. We need to figure out how we're going to get out of this."

"If they leave the docking bay doors open, we might be able to fight through. Otherwise, we're gonna have to figure out how to open those doors ourselves. Which - Cesartoo can handle that, if we get him to a terminal. Perks of having an Imperial mech droid onboard. He'll fit right in."

Beside Ambrose, Cesartoo beeps an affirmative.

Roman shifts. "What about - and I hate to say this - but what about stealing one of their shuttles?"

"If we have to," Ambrose says. "I'd rather not leave the _Falcon_ behind, but it's about the mission, right? That's how this stuff works?"

"As far as I know," Roman says. "What are the odds we get found down here?"

"Assuming the heat shielding isn't damaged, they won't. These two holds just show up as solid metal on their scanners. They can't penetrate them. They shouldn't think this is anything but extra stabilizing weight. But have your blaster ready just in case."

"Good plan." Roman eases it out of the holster and sets it beside his thigh. "How long do you expect to be down here?"

"Until they finish their sweep, I guess. I don't know. Last time something like this happened, we were down here for about three hours, give or take."

"You've been boarded by Imperial troops before?" Roman asks, alarmed.

"Twice. Didn't get found either time."

Cesartoo beeps something that sounds indignant.

It's too dark to see Ambrose's expression, but Roman hears him snort. "That time doesn't count."

The ship suddenly bumps down hard enough to knock the little glowlight over, to send a protest shockwaving up Roman's tailbone, and to send Ambrose half-sprawling into Roman's lap. A second bump tips Cesar2-D2 over, the poor little droid beeping with complete indignation as he tries to right himself.

Ambrose scrambles off Roman's lap - nearly elbowing Roman in a very sensitive spot on his way - and helps Cesar2-D2 back right again. Then he grabs the light and holds it up.

"I think we're in."

"I'd say that's a safe bet, Captain," Roman says. "Now we wait?"

"Now we wait," Ambrose replies grimly, settling back at Roman's side. He fits there pretty well, Roman decides. "And let Helmet Head go off to meet his fate."

Roman settles a tentative hand back on Ambrose's shoulder again. "Times like this, my father used to say, 'It's the will of the Force, son. We might not understand it, but we have to accept that it's the Force's will.' I never really did understand it, but it was always a comfort then. As I grew older, though, we prayed to the Lady for guidance, too. My father stopped saying anything about the Force years ago. But I remember as a kid him saying that everything has a purpose, and the Force guides that. It's probably not much comfort, but I guess everything happens for a reason. That's what he was saying."

"Styles ain't dyin' for any good reason." Ambrose leans forward, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. "The Force. That's that Jedi mumbo-jumbo. Thought all that was a myth, anyway. I learned as a kid that faith is for suckers. Can't believe in anybody, and the only person you should ever trust is yourself. That's all you got."

"I don't know if the Force if a myth or not," Roman says, "but I guess that doesn't matter. You can trust me, Dean." He doesn't know why, but it feels important to say that. "You can."

Cesartoo beeps something that sounds an awful lot like _me too_.

Dean doesn't exactly answer beyond a single jerky nod, but that's something.

"Where are you from, anyway?" Roman asks, finally returning his hand to his lap.

"Corellia," Dean says curtly. "You?"

"Coruscant," Roman says. "I was raised in the capitol."

"Center of the galaxy." Dean rests his cheek on his forearms, hooded eyes finding Roman's. "That how the Empire noticed you?"

To Roman's surprise, there's no edge to it. If anything, it's a curious question, one that doesn't raise his hackles. "No. I took any job I could and built up a reputation as being one of the best around. I brought in a couple of bounties who'd eluded the Empire for years. That got me noticed. I was very good at what I did. I'm not ashamed of that. One of my bounties was singlehandedly responsible for bombing an entire village to the ground. Murdered a thousand innocents because of some petty grudge with a local trader. He deserved his execution."

"Wasn't a Rebel, was he?"

"No," Roman says. "He was just a regular citizen who thought his crime would go unnoticed in all the chaos.  That's what they told me anyway."  He pauses, frowning at his lap.  "Now that I think about it, I don't know.  They _told_ me that's who the man was, and I never questioned it.  I don't really know who he was.  I just knew I caught him and took him to be executed, and that was that."

That raises a lot of disturbing possibilities, ones he's not sure he's prepared to think about.

This time it's Dean who reaches over, a hand finding Roman's leg and giving it a light squeeze.  "You just do better now that you know."

"I suppose," Roman says.  "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You see what it's like, too.  We get Becky and Sasha where they need to be, maybe you stay with them.  Help them out.  Do better."

"I'm still gonna have Bubba the Hutt lookin' for me in every corner of the galaxy, so it's probably better if I steer clear.  Knowin' my luck, one of Bubba's bounty hunters would follow me somewhere secret, and that would bring the Empire down on all of us.  Rather not do that."

"Maybe I'll go with you, then," Roman says, the suggestion springing out light and natural.  It feels right.  "Cesartoo over there thinks I should.  Oh, and Seth-3PO gave his approval, too.  They both think you need a co-pilot.  I tend to agree.  You're trouble."

"You turned my droids against me?" Dean says, eyebrows raised with his disbelief.  He withdraws his hand and tilts his head. "I don't believe this.  They've known you for two days.  What did you do to them?  Did you tinker with their programming?"

"I wouldn't even know how," Roman says, allowing himself just a small smile.

Cesar2-D2 rocks back and forth on his feet, warbling something Roman can't understand.  Whatever it is, it makes Dean huff and shake his head.  "Unbelievable.  Mutiny, I tell ya.  I swear-"

He breaks off and sits up rod straight when the ship begins to vibrate.  The hold is soundproofed, but Roman doesn't actually need to hear what's going on overhead to know it's the ramp being lowered.  Less than a minute later, there's the tell-tale clockwork rumble of heavy, booted footsteps ascending into the ship.  Lots of them. 

Dean reaches for his blaster, gaze trained at the ceiling.  "Here they come.  Luck, Helmet Head."

"Here they come," Roman echoes. He picks up his blaster with one hand, and settles the other back on Ambrose's shoulder.

And together, with Cesartoo silent and still beside them, they begin the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bubba the Hutt. Wasssup?
> 
> Also, here we go.


	16. Captured (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A more serious chapter. Plans change. So be it.

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** XVI. Captured (II)

It's the most excruciating few hours of Roman's life.

The last thing Dean says before they fall into silence is, "There's a little light on the opposite wall that will glow blue if they lift the decking above us. It's a warning they're onto us down here. That's the only way they can get in, too. Seth has a 'comm unit and so does Cesartoo. They'll send a signal if there's trouble. We gotta be quiet. We're soundproofed down here, but-"

"Better safe," Roman finishes for him. It's a relief to know there's some kind of a warning in place, and that they'll be able to communicate between the two compartments, if need be. He tightens his grip on his blaster. "That's good."

"Been around the Galaxy a time or two," Dean says grimly.

They feel rather than hear footsteps overhead, a faint rumble like distant thunder.

And that's all they hear.

If there are shots fired or anyone speaking, it doesn't reach the interior of this cramped hold. All Roman can hear is the sound of breathing and the occasional mechanical whirr from Cesartoo.

Knowing that they're sending someone to a near-certain death isn't a particularly pleasant thought, and it's all Roman can think about now: what'll happen to Styles once he's removed from the ship. If Styles will try to go down fighting. If they'll manage to subdue him first.

He finds himself hoping that Styles' end is fast and painless.

The man was trying to do what he believed to be the right thing, and for the right reason, and a quick death is a mercy he's earned.

Beside Roman, Ambrose is fidgety, restless. If he's not tapping his fingers on his knees, he's bumping the butt of his blaster against his thigh, or tapping the back of his head against the wall. Roman can practically feel the tension humming in the captain's body. At some point, Roman settles a hand on Dean's leg, and to his surprise, Dean stills for a while.

Roman just leaves his hand there; it's comfortable, and being tethered to something solid himself is a reassurance he's surprised he wants. He's been traveling alone for the majority of his life, but trapped in the middle of an Imperial Star Destroyer with Stormtroopers tromping overhead, he's grateful not to be.

He has no idea how much time passes while the Troopers are ostensibly searching the _Falcon_ for signs of life. All he knows is that enough passes so that his backside goes numb and his tailbone begins to ache from sitting on bare metal. The confined space grows warm with the two of them sitting so close. Sweat trickles down under Roman's armor, making him itch between his shoulderblades in a place he can't scratch. He's too tense to become drowsy, but he's pretty sure he hears Ambrose yawning a time or two. Every time Dean does, Roman has to stifle his own yawn. He wants to stretch out his arms and shoulders, but he can't.

Most of all, he just wants to _fight_.

The warrior in him.

While he's grown more patient over the years (it's a necessity as a bounty hunter), there is still that primal part of him that wants nothing more than to kick the compartment open and rush out to take on as many Stormtroopers as he can. Something to get his blood moving again. That battle rush. He half-hopes that blue light will come on so he has an excuse to start shooting. Anything at this point would be better than crouching down in here the dark like some rodent or a coward too afraid to fight.

Down here, he feels almost helpless, penned in and locked down.

Trapped.

He hates this.

Without even meaning to, he clenches his fists tight, one of which is still on Dean's leg. It startles him when he feels Dean cover it, squeeze it. Dean looks over, calm and steady, and Roman blows out a hard breath that feels like he's thrown open a pressure valve and let off some steam.

It helps.

For a long moment, neither of them moves. They just stare at each other like they're frozen in place, and Roman doesn't understand anything. He couldn't turn away right now if he wanted to. He doesn't want to. It's confusing, whatever it is, and he's very aware suddenly of just how close they're sitting. If he wanted to, _if_ he did, he could just lean forward a little bit and-

 _No_. _What? No_.

Quickly shaking _that_ thought away, he tugs his hand free and returns his attention to the ceiling.

Ambrose shifts over closer to Cesartoo and draws his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them and his blaster by his feet.

Roman doesn't understand that, either, but he puts it out of mind and forces himself to concentrate on the sounds coming from overhead. It's right about that time he realizes he can't actually feel anything at all. There's no heavy rumble of boots on the decking anymore. There's no rumble coming from anywhere in the ship, as far as he can tell.

He inclines his head, listening. It's still. It's completely still.

"I think they cleared out," he says in a voice just above a whisper.

Ambrose picks up his blaster. "Might be right. I haven't heard anything for probably ten minutes."

"Should we move?" Roman asks.

"Worth a look, anyway," Ambrose replies. He shifts around to his knees and crawls over to the other side of the compartment. "Come here and cover me."

That is music to Roman's ears. He unbends himself and takes up a cover position at Ambrose's heels, blaster aimed up over Ambrose's shoulder. Ambrose unlatches the compartment's top and slides it out of the way. He's slow and steady with it and the decking, not letting it scrape or make a sound as he moves it so he can see.

After just a moment, Ambrose says, "There's nobody there. I'm gonna go out and take a look."

"I'll do it," Roman says immediately.

"No," Ambrose says. He's already pushed the deck plate all the way open. "You stay here. I'm just going around around the corner, anyway."

"Let me," Roman says again. "You're still injured."

"I'm _fine_ ," Ambrose bites out. As if to prove a point, he hoists himself out onto the main deck without any trouble at all. He crouches down against the the wall, blaster at the ready, and glances at Roman again. "Keep an eye out. I'll be right back."

"Be _careful_ ," Roman says, his spine ratcheting tight. This has _disaster_ written all over it.

Ambrose gives him a _look_. "It'll be fine."

"You say that, and things have a way of _not_ being fine," Roman shoots back. "Just go. Stay low and keep quiet."

"'F I didn't know any better," Ambrose drawls, "I'd think you were worried about me."

Roman has exactly no answer for that, so he doesn't rise to the bait. Ambrose doesn't around long enough to wait for one, anyway. He makes his way along the wall, slow and careful, his footsteps completely inaudible over the metal decking. His blaster his steady in his hand.

When he disappears around the corner, Roman holds his breath. The feeling's starting to return to the places that went numb down in the smuggling hold, but he still feels like he's on pins and needles, hyperaware of every creak and groan and all the distant sounds of things he can now hear going on around the ship here. People. He can just hear Stormtroopers marching somewhere, but he's pretty sure they're not inside the _Falcon_.

Pretty sure.

But one minute becomes two. Then three. Then four. Then five.

Still, Roman hears nothing nearby that sounds like struggle or scuffling.

The trouble is that it just shouldn't take five minutes for someone to go peek around a corner. Ambrose should have been able to do that and be back half a dozen times by now. That corner wasn't all that far away. There is no possible reason Roman can think of for it to take this long.

Unless there were Troopers, and Ambrose got caught.

Alarm jolting through his stomach, Roman plants both hands on the decking and pulls himself out of the hold. All he can see in his head now is visions of Ambrose at the mercy of Stormtrooers and their blaster rifles. "Stay here," he says to Cesartoo. As if the droid could somehow lift himself out of a compartment that's deeper than he is tall. "I'm gonna go see what's taking him so long."

Cesartoo beeps uncertainly as Roman takes a careful up the corridor.

He's made it maybe two steps when he hears, "Roman, where are you going?" behind him.

For the second time in less than twenty minutes, Roman is nearly startled out of his skin. He whirls around, blaster up and ready to fire. "Ambrose?"

Ambrose leans casually against the wall, his own blaster holstered. "In the flesh. Rather not be shot again, if I can avoid it, though. Mind lowerin' your blaster there?"

"Mind telling me what you were doing?" Roman gruffs at him. A jerky hand holsters the blaster as he makes his way over. "Thought you just gonna go look around the corner and come back."

"Was," Ambrose says in a voice like a shrug. "Didn't see anybody so I decided to look around the whole deck. There's a couple Troopers guarding the bottom of the ramp, but other than that, we're clear up here. We can get Cesartoo out and get Becky and Sasha. Figure out what to do next." He pauses though, inclining his head. "Where were you going?"

"After you," Roman says stiffly. He stuffs his blaster back into its holster and makes his way over. "You were gone longer than you should have been."

"Worried." Ambrose actually smiles. "I saw it was clear, so I changed my plans. It was fine. What's the problem?"

"We're in the middle of a Star Destroyer full of Stormtroopers," Roman says, very much not smiling, "and we don't know what's around every corner. You can't go running off like that without telling me what you're doing. What if you'd run into trouble somewhere else in the ship, and they realized there's more of us here? There's too much at stake for any of us to be running rogue like that right now. We make a plan, we stick to it."

He doesn't like the way that chases the smile from Ambrose's face, but it's necessary. It's things like that that get people killed. Ambrose seems to understand that because he says, "Sticking to plans, then. That's boring, but I guess we gotta be boring now. Come on. Help me get Cesartoo up. Let's do this quick. I don't know how much time we're gonna get up here."

"Right," Roman mutters.

 _Boring_.

He shakes his head.

His hair is going to be solid gray before all is said and done here.

No doubt about it.

* * *

Five minutes later, Becky and Sasha sit perched on the edge of their compartment while Seth-3PO and his two Ewoks are still inside. Ambrose is slouched back against the wall opposite them, with Roman standing on his left and Cesartoo on his right.

Ambrose quietly brings Becky and Sasha up to speed on the lack of Stormtroopers in the ship, and concludes with, "First thing we're gonna have to do is get those Stormtroopers off the ramp. We get them, we can see the lay of the hangar we're in."

"It'll be easiest if we knock them out from behind," Roman says. "Drag them onto the ship. Assuming there are no others nearby. That's the problem."

"Cesartoo can scan for that," Ambrose says. He eyes Becky thoughtfully. "Guess once we got the lay of the land, we can decide if we're gonna break the _Falcon_ here out or steal a shuttle."

"Before that," Becky says, lifting her chin, "there's somethin' Sasha 'n I've been talkin' about. We don't wanna leave AJ behind. We wanna find him and get 'im outta here. We wanna do that, and then worry about gettin' us all outta here. We think we can use Cesartoo to find 'im. He's gotta interface with the computer to get us outta the hangar here anyway, an' when he does, he can find out where they've got AJ."

Ceseartoo beeps uncertainly.

"No," Ambrose says, much to Roman's relief. "Not happening."

"Dean-"

"No," Dean cuts her off. "Listen, I get it: AJ shouldn't have to sacrifice himself like this - not after all you lost at Endor. But - and I hate to say this - we don't even know if he's alive. He told us to get the plans out of here and back to your base. That was _his_ plan. When we make plans, we stick to them."

He glances at Roman as he says it, and Roman can't decide whether he wants to smile or roll his eyes. He does neither. "I understand it, too, but what happens to the Rebellion if we go try to free Styles, and we all end up dead? What happens if those plans get lost? The whole point of everything here is to get those plans. Like Dean said, that's what Styles wanted."

Becky barely looks at him. She turns a bright, determined gaze Dean's way. "We talked about that, too. Seth looks just like every protocol droid on this Star Destroyer - especially now he's been all shined up. He'd be able to pass right on through. No one would even look at him twice. If we gave _him_ the plans an' he got to an escape pod, I'd give him a code to use to get an Alliance ship comin' his way to pick 'im up. They'd have the plans."

"Still not hearin' anything I like," Ambrose says. For once, Roman's glad the man's so stubborn.

"Me neither," Seth-3PO chimes in from the bottom of the smuggling hold. The two Ewoks are sound asleep on either side of him, curled up into a pair of gently snoring little balls. "The probability of you surviving if you try to rescue Styles - assuming he's alive - is-"

"Really don't need to know the odds, Seth," Ambrose cuts him off. He steps forward, arms folded over his chest. "You think you're just gonna be able to walk right through an Imperial ship, past all those Imperial Stormtroopers, go into an Imperial detention area or wherever they're holding him if he's alive, and just take him out past all those Imperial guards?"

"He _is_ alive," Sasha says. "If the Emperor wants him, then they'll keep him alive. We just have to find out where he is, and then we can figure out a way to him. It won't be as easy as walking through the ship, I'll grant you that, but we could find another way. Ventilation shafts. Maybe take the Troopers' uniforms and use those. There are ways."

Ambrose gives Roman a bewildered look. "What is this? You've been saying nothing but _we need to get those plans to base_ since I pulled you off Endor, and now all of a sudden you wanna drop that on my droid so you can go try to save a guy who told you to leave? Why? Why is AJ suddenly more important than the plans to the Emperor's planet-killer?"

"Because of what he knows," Becky says. She climbs to her feet and moves to stand in front of Dean. "He _is_ the Rebellion. He's been there from the start and he knows all the secrets - where the bases are, where the money is comin' from, the whole command structure. That's what the Emperor wants. With that kinda information, Dean, he really can end us. Heyman has ways of gettin' information outta people. That's why. They're important, too, but if the Emperor cracks AJ, then it really is over. That, and _why_ would you let him die, if there's a chance to save him? Are you really so cowardly, Dean, that you'd run instead of try?"

Roman clears his throat. "We're talking about getting the plans to the Emperor's weapon to your people. Helping you. Like Styles wanted. How is that cowardly? It's a sacrifice of one to save potentially _trillions_. You can move your bases. Supplies can be redirected and people redistributed. Would he really want you to do this? Or would he want you to follow through on what he sacrificed himself for?"

Sasha gets up herself and joins Becky, but she touches Becky's arm to get her attention. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I...agree. With Reigns." She wrinkles her nose. "It's not cowardly.  We do need to get those plans to base.  This isn't Dean's fight. He doesn't understand because he hasn't been there. He's not a solider. He's a pilot. Give him the plans. Let him take them to the council. We can stay and rescue AJ. We'll find our own way back."

"No," Ambrose says again. "We're not leaving you behind. That - no."

But Becky's already lifting the necklace with the data card off of her neck. She holds it out to Dean. "Take it."

He shrinks away from her. "I'm not taking that. I don't want AJ to die, either, but-"

"We don't have time to argue," Becky cuts him off. They really don't, either, Roman realizes: they're in the middle of a corridor in a ship that's surrounded by the Empire. They could have Troopers coming back in any second. "You need to get this to Yavin 4. The command ship is orbit there. Take this to Mon Mothma. Tell them everything that's happened. Take it, Dean. Please."

"Take it," Sasha says firmly.

Roman pulls in a deep breath. This is insane. "Take it, Captain."

Ambrose looks at the three of them with wide, betrayed eyes. "This isn't the _plan_. You just told me if we make a plan, we stick to it. This ain't sticking to it. This is an _Imperial_ ship. How-"

"Just get the plans to Yavin," Becky says. She drops the necklace over Ambrose's head. The data card falls flat against his chest, square and metallic. "We're soldiers, Dean. We're used these sorts of odds." She finally looks at Roman, hard and flat. "You say we can trust you, Reigns. Now is when you prove it. If you mean it about wantin' better for us all, then you get him to Yavin."

"You betray us, you're dead," Sasha says.

Roman believes it: he's seen ice planets that are warmer than her eyes. "I'll get him there," he says.

"What are you even gonna _do_?" Ambrose asks Becky. He's got a hand clenched around the data card.

"We're gonna take out those guards at the bottom of the ramp, like you said," Becky says, "and then we're gonna find a way to a terminal so Cesartoo can plug in. That's the plan for now. You find your way out, and we find our way in." She offers Ambrose a strained smile. "This is what we _do_ , Deano. All our fights are like this. It's always just a few of us against a mass of them. Never a fair fight. We've had to learn how to be smarter. We're not helpless here. We just can't let it end like this for him. We have to try."

"You want me to leave you behind." Ambrose's voice is hollow. "You really want me to do that."

Something changes in Becky's face. She smiles gently. "It didn't bother you so much the last time you did it."

"'Cuz I knew there was better out there for you. And I was right."

"There's plenty here," Becky says. "You've just never been willin' to open your cargo doors enough to let anyone see it. Maybe you will someday." For whatever reason, her gaze shifts to Roman briefly and back. "Get those plans where they need to go, ya old junkheap. We'll get AJ. We'll all meet up on Yavin. I'll fix up your ship m'self. You can buy me a drink."

Ambrose nods jerkily. When Becky reaches up to kiss his forehead, he squeezes his eyes closed and wraps his arms around her.

Roman, feeling like he's intruding on a private moment, turns away.

Nothing about this is right, but he doesn't have that down-deep _this is a bad idea_ feeling that's been so prevalent over the past few days. He has no doubt that Becky and Sasha can hold their own. He's seen Sasha fight before and knows how deadly she can be, and he doesn't doubt that Becky is just as fearsome, but two people against an entire Star Destroyer - against _five_ of them - is the height of madness.

Just then, he hears his father's voice, quiet and vibrant, in the back of his mind: _It's the will of the Force. So be it_.

 _So be it_.

Small comfort, that.

He hears Becky move away, and finally turns back around to find Dean staring straight ahead, blank-faced, while Becky and Sasha gather their things. He's still clutching the data card, Ambrose is, his knuckles white around it. His mouth is nothing but a compressed line.

As much as Roman wants to reach for him, to try to offer sympathy, now doesn't feel like the right time for it.

"That's everything, then," Becky says quietly, shaking a coppery red braid off of her face.

"Stay behind us for now, Cesartoo," Dean says with absolutely no inflection. "Start your scan. Let us know when it's okay to take those two Troopers down there out."

Cesartoo beeps a soft affirmative.  It's the most unhappy-sounding beep Roman has ever heard.

Becky and Sasha head off for the ramp, footsteps silent on the decking, and Dean and Roman follow right behind.

 _So be it_.


	17. Captured (III)

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** XVII. Captured (III)

"We need to get them to come up the ramp," Sasha mouths.

She and Becky are hovering on one side of the ramp's entryway, while Roman's crouched with Ambrose on the other side. Behind them in the corridor, Cesar2-D2 sits silently, watching.

Seth-3PO and his two Ewoks had shuffled up toward the cockpit just a moment ago, Seth-3PO murmuring a promise to Ambrose that he'd keep the Ewoks quiet and out of the way.

So far, things are all right.

What's not all right is that they've got a pretty limited view of what's out in that hangar bay beyond the ship here. The two Stormtroopers Roman can see just fine; they're facing out toward the bay, blaster rifles in hand. It's what's lies past them that he can't see. As far as he can tell, there's no one else standing nearby, but he doesn't trust that.

For all they know, there could be an entire platoon of Stormtroopers surrounding the ship.

Going down blasters blazing is not an option here.

Luring the two troopers up into the ship, on the other hand, might be.

"Once they're up here, knock 'em out and get their armor," Ambrose mutters, tucking the data card inside his shirt. His face is set, grim. "Put it on. That'll at least give us a chance to look at what we're up against."

Becky peeks around the edge again, eyes narrowing. "It's gonna be too big for me 'n Sasha. You 'n Roman're gonna have to put it on."

"You'll have to deal with stowing the guards somewhere, then," Ambrose replies in that same barely-moving-his-mouth mutter. "We're gonna have to get back down fast once we get that armor on. Otherwise they're gonna know something's happened."

"Let's get back around the corner, at least," Roman suggests. "We hit them from behind, less chance they'll be able to call for backup."

Sasha and Becky exchange a considering look and a nod. "Fair plan," Becky whispers. "Why don't we go back to the engine compartment? That's got the most room to move. Reigns, you can take one 'n Sasha'll take the other. Dean and I'll cover ya."

Ambrose motions for Cesartoo to head on down the corridor, murmuring, "When I say, I want you to set off an alarm - not a fire alarm. Just a general alarm in the engine compartment. That should be enough to get their attention. You stay back behind us."

Cesar2-D2 chirps quietly as he rolls on by.

They all follow right on his mechanical heels, carefully and silently making their way around the corridor to the engine compartment. Like the cockpit, it has a door that can seal it off from the rest of the ship. On either side of the door, there are walls just large enough for Roman and Sasha to stand behind. It's a bit of a tight fit: they both have to squeeze themselves between the wall and monitoring stations - tables with the computers that track the status of all the ship's systems. Roman's thighs just barely fight into the gap. Sasha's a little better, but not much.

Ambrose and Becky move a little deeper into the engine compartment and split off to hunker down at the other end of the monitoring stations. It's dark enough back here that the shadows hide them both away well enough.

Cesartoo rolls himself to one side of the room and quickly plugs himself into one of the panels. He beeps again, quiet and terse.

"Ready?" Ambrose says.

Roman eases his blaster out of its holster. Battle calm washes over him, that coolness driving out any apprehension he might have about this thrown-together plan. It's better than just sitting here waiting to be taken prisoner. "Ready."

Across the way, Sasha frees her dagger. "Ready."

"Ready," Becky says from her hiding place.

"Do it," Ambrose says to Cesartoo.

After the briefest of pauses, a red light begins to flash overhead and a noisy alarm pierces the quiet like an arrow. The alarm speaker is right over Roman's head, of course, and he winces away from it. On the monitoring panel across the way he can see the words _ELECTRICAL FAILURE_ flashing in bright red text against a black background.

Cesartoo quickly disconnects from the terminal and rolls back out of the way.

Heavy footsteps thud up the ramp.

 _Here we go_ , Roman thinks, pulling in a deep, quiet breath. _Be with me, Lady_.

"-engine compartment," he hears a Trooper say.

"Copy," the other answers, voice coming from somewhere closer.

The footsteps grow louder, until two tall Stormtroopers in their identical white armor walk through the engine compartment's doorway, right past Roman and Sasha.

When it happens, it's fast.

Roman slips free of his hiding spot at the same time Sasha does, and almost in unison, they strike, quick and silent. Roman raises his blaster and slams the butt of it down as hard as he can onto the vulnerable area between the first trooper's neck and shoulder. It's a small target, but Roman hits it dead-on.

The Trooper crumples to the deck like a puppet with cut strings.

Meanwhile, Sasha kicks the back of the second Trooper's knee to stagger him, and then hits him in exactly the same way: ramming the end of her knife's handle right into that pressure point. Like the first, the second falls like all the bones have fallen out of his body, rifle clattering to the deck.

"We got 'em," Roman calls urgently to the others. "Hurry."

Ambrose and Becky scramble out of their hiding spots and race the few steps over, faces identically blank.

On his way over, Ambrose slaps a button to stop the alarm's obnoxious shrieking.

The four of them waste no time at all getting the Troopers out of their armor. It's a grim, silent affair. While Becky and Sasha work on securing the two unconscious Troopers, Dean and Roman strip down to their underclothes. Roman hates taking off his own armor, but he has no choice: there is no way the Stormtroopers' armor will fit over his.

Roman doesn't mean to, but while he's reaching for the tight black under armor, he glances over at the similarly mostly-undressed Ambrose. He tells himself, Roman does, that it's just because he wants to see how the wound on Ambrose's arm looks. (It's healing.) If he takes in the rest of Ambrose's lean, long body in that glance, it's a complete accident.

He really does not mean to let his gaze linger down where it does.

On the other hand, it's probably _not_ an accident that Ambrose is looking at him, those leering blue eyes all but glued to Roman's backside. Suddenly, it's far too warm in this little compartment.

 _Stop it_ , Roman snaps at himself. _Not the time_.

He drags on the skintight black under armor. It barely fits over his legs or his arms, and it pinches in certain...delicate areas. But that's nothing compared to how horribly tight and closed-in the armor itself is. He can barely breathe after he puts on the chest piece, and can barely lift his arms once the shoulder pieces and arm covers snap into place.

Imperial Stormtrooper armor was designed to more for style - to look intimidating - than functionality. It can deflect blasters, but that's about it. Roman can tell he wouldn't be able to run in this if he wanted to. Hand-to-hand combat is out of the question, too. While the armor would protect him from somebody trying to hit him, he'd be too slow to hit back. Couldn't get any force behind his hits, probably.

"Get to the bottom of the ramp," Becky says, "an' take a look around. See what we're up against. Sasha and I'll drop these two-" she nudges one of the unconscious troopers with a booted toe "-in the hold and be up shortly."

"Got it," Ambrose says, pulling the bucket-like Troopers' helmet over his head.

When Roman pulls his own on and the seal hisses, he thinks he knows what it's like to be trapped inside a coffin. His field of view is decent, but he can barely turn his head.

Whoever designed this was an idiot.

There's no time to complain, though, not without so much riding on this.

"Good luck," Becky says.

"Be careful," Sasha adds, as she bends down to scoop up one of the bound Troopers.

Ambrose gives them both a little wave, hoists his blaster rifle, and heads off for the ramp.

And Roman follows right behind him.

* * *

Once they reach the top of the ramp, Ambrose puts out a hand to stop Roman. He lifts his helmet off altogether and says, "Stay here a second. Let me go to the bottom and look around. I might have an idea."

Roman yanks his own helmet off. "What's your idea?"

"That's gonna depend on what it looks like down there," Ambrose says. There's a hard sparkle in his eye Roman's not so sure he likes, but there's also determination there. "Give me just a second, huh? Wait right here. Be ready to cover me if something goes wrong."

"Be _careful_ ," Roman says for what feels like the millionth time.

Captain Ambrose just smiles this infuriating cocky smile before he slips his helmet back on.

And, oh, Roman can feel those gray hairs coming on already.

If he's smiling a little himself when he pulls his own helmet back on, there's nobody here to see it.

It's a short-lived smile, at least, because the instant Ambrose clumps out of the ship, Roman's senses heighten. He watches through narrowed eyes as Ambrose pauses just halfway down the ramp and looks around.

The moment he does, the comlink inside Roman's helmet erupts with an impatient, "TX-four-two-one, why aren't you at your post?"

Immediately, Ambrose swivels to his left.

"TX-four-two-one," the voice says again, "why did you leave your post?"

This time, Ambrose tilts his head to one side and taps the side of his helmet with a couple gloved fingers, as if he's having a hard time hearing.

Or can't answer.

"TX-four-two-one, is your transmitter not working?" the voice asks. Sounds like an older guy, if Roman had to guess. Voice has the kind of hard, clipped edges to it of a career soldier.

Meanwhile Ambrose waves at whatever he's looking at over to his left.

"Copy," that hard voice says through what sounds like an almighty sigh.

"What's goin' on?" a different voice asks from behind Roman.

Becky and Sasha crowd in behind him, and he raises a single finger to tell them to wait, since he himself isn't sure exactly what's happening yet.

Suddenly, Ambrose turns and takes a couple steps up the ramp, quickly gesturing for everybody to get back while he himself makes his way back in. Roman understands why less than a minute later when a balding, gray-clad Imperial officer suddenly appears at the bottom of the ramp.

Ambrose subtly flicks his head at the guy, and Roman sees Becky and Sasha both nod their understanding.

 _Take him out_.

It's easy.

The officer is focused on Ambrose so intently that he doesn't even notice there are three other people standing around just inside the _Falcon_. It's Sasha who takes him out, knocking him out in exactly the same way as she had the other soldier, a quick downward whip with the butt-end of her dagger.

The officer falls boneless, the back of his head bleeding.

Becky grimaces at that, but turns away from it quickly.  "What did you see, Deano?"

"We're in business," Ambrose says curtly. "There's nobody down there right now.  They must have already run all their scans.  Which is good.  Means we probably got a window.  This guy was in an office just outside the room here. There's one other soldier in it. I think that's where the terminal is.  The four of us can handle that. Cesartoo," he adds, looking over Becky's shoulder, "you're with us. Hey Seth!" he calls.

"Yes, Captain?" Seth-3PO replies, tinny voice brisk and calm.

"We're about to go cut ourselves free. When those docking clamps and the tractor beam are off, get the ship up and get it ready to fly. As soon as the doors are open, we're gone."

He does not look at Becky or Sasha when he says this.

"Understood," Seth-3PO answers.

"Let's go down first, Roman," Ambrose says, grim and shut down. Clearly not happy about this, but willing to go forward with it. That counts. "Make ourselves a shield for Becky and Sasha."

Still sweltering inside his helmet, there's not much Roman can do but nod.

"Help me carry him outta here," Becky says to Sasha, who immediately hunkers down to pick up the officer's legs.  "We'll stash him out on the deck somewhere."

It's Roman who walks down first this time, with Ambrose right behind him, the pair of them looking through the window of the little office to see if the soldier inside is even paying attention to them. He's not.  His head's bowed over whatever he's doing on his desk. Ambrose pauses halfway down the ramp again, and tugs Roman to a stop so Becky and Sasha can descend behind them.

This feels almost too easy, Roman thinks, unease creeping up his spine.

Here he'd been expecting to be in an immense docking bay swarming with hundreds of Stormtroopers, but instead the _Falcon_ is tucked away inside a tiny bay with only a single sleek black Imperial shuttle beside it, and the were only two Stormtrooper guards and a couple officers keeping watch.

In a way, it's almost insulting.

But Roman, remembering the near constant thud of footsteps overhead when they'd been hiding in the holds, supposes after the Imperial soldiers took Styles away and completed their scans - without finding anything - they probably wouldn't have felt a great need to assign dozens of Stormtroopers to watch over the _Falcon_. Waste of resources to park a bunch of soldiers in front of an empty ship.

Also incredibly good fortune.

He and Ambrose keep a watch out while Becky and Sasha stash the officer out of sight behind some equipment crates. The soldier in the office - a young man with big owlish eyes - does look up once or twice, but doesn't do much more than blink drowsily at Roman and Ambrose, and go back to whatever he's doing.

Once Becky and Sasha have finished dealing with the officer, they and Cesartoo join Roman and Ambrose near the ramp. Becky heads out first, crouched low and jogging for a wall that's out of sight-line to the soldier in the office. Sasha and Cesartoo take off behind her. Ambrose goes next, with Roman right on his heels.

The door to the office is just to the left of the window. It's a gray metal thing with a touch panel beside it. Roman has no idea how it works, but Becky's already on it, jamming her thumb on a button that makes the door slide aside smoothly.

She motions for Roman to go first, and he does, clumping into the office and right up to the surprised soldier.  He's a short little thing, that soldier is, sitting at his terminal.

"Can I help-"

One hit with the butt of Roman's blaster rifle knocks him clean out, and he goes sprawling to the floor.

Roman immediately yanks his helmet off his head and throws it aside, grateful to breathe fresh - recycled - air. Sweat's pouring freely down the back of his neck and his face as he bends down to hook a couple hands under the soldier's armpits and drag him away. There's a small closet at the back of the room. Roman dumps the little man in there as if he weighs nothing more than a feather.

The others have converged not on the terminal at the desk, but at a blinking panel on the wall. Ambrose had shed his helmet, too, and is standing behind Cesartoo, who's plugged himself into a socket on that wall panel. Becky and Sasha hover together beside him, anxious and eager.

Roman pauses beside Ambrose, who's similarly red-faced and sweaty, expressionless as he watches Cesartoo.

For a good few seconds, nothing happens. No lights blink. Cesartoo doesn't beep. There's just a faint mechanical whirr as he interfaces with the Star Destroyer's computer.

A quick glance through the window tells Roman everything is fine there.

It still feels too easy.

He shifts his blaster rifle to the other hand. _Come on, come on, come on_...

Not even two seconds later, words appear in white on the monitor above the Cesartoo's panel: " _I found Styles. Alive. Detention block A-A-23. Level 37. He's scheduled to depart at 1800 hours. They're taking him to Emperor."_

"Eighteen hundred hours," Becky says, exchanging grim looks with Sasha. The chronometer on the wall reads 1624. "We've got one and a half hours to get him. That's great. Where are we, Cesartoo? How close?"

There's just a beat of a pause before Cesartoo answers: " _We're on deck 12. Take door into hall here. Go right. End of hall, take lift down to deck 37. Straight all the way down the hall - long way. Detention block is to right. It's restricted. Block A-A-23 is upper level, last cell on left."_

"You gettin' all this?" Becky asks Sasha, whose mouth is moving silently as she reads the screen.

"Yeah, but how are we gonna get down there?" Sasha asks. "I can't - what do we do here, Becky? We have an _hour_ to get through this ship."

Becky look at Ambrose. "Any ideas?"

Roman looks down at his armor, and then through the window at the ship, and then around the office. Something clicks in his head like a light snapping on. "The soldier in the closet," he blurts. "One of you put his uniform on and take the other one down to detention as a prisoner. That'll at least get you to the door. How you get in from there, you'll have to figure that out when you get there. Or - I don't know - if you wait, you might be able to ambush the soldiers that are escorting him to his ship."

Without even pausing, Becky says to Sasha, "That's a start."

"Yeah." Sasha gives Roman a grudging look. "That gets us down to the detention block, at least. It's a good plan. Thank you."

Roman nods at her.

He stands aside with Ambrose, while Becky and Sasha head over to pull the soldier out of the closet.

While they're doing, Roman looks down at Cesartoo. "How about getting us out of here?"

Again there's that pause. " _The command codes are encrypted. I'm attempting to access via maintenance overrides, but will take a few minutes. Stand by."_

"So we're waiting again," Roman says to Ambrose, who's leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest and his face just tight.

"Looks like it," Ambrose says, not looking away from where he's watching Becky put the soldier's uniform on. "Say this does work, Becks, and you manage to save him. How do you get off this ship?"

"We steal a shuttle," Sasha answers immediately.

"AJ'll know how to override the doors," Becky adds. She finishes tucking the shirt into her trousers and steps into the boots. "He's escaped a Star Destroyer before. You let us worry about that, Deano. You 'n Reigns there, you just worry about gettin' those plans to Yavin. Don't worry about us. I told ya, this is kind of thing we do. We'll get 'im out or we'll all die tryin'. Either way, the Emperor won't get what he wants."

The last thing Becky does is gather all of her hair and tuck as much of it as she can under the uniform cap. She's head to toe gray with some strands of fiery orange peeking out. Fierce eyes and a tight smile. The uniform doesn't fit her that well - it's a little too tight across the chest and baggy in the legs - but it's not so awful that Roman thinks anyone will notice, especially if they're hurrying as much as he suspects they will.

"I think that's it," she says, throwing her old clothes into the closet with the still-unconscious soldier.

"Here," Sasha says, handing Becky a set of restraints. "Put these on me. It'll look more authentic."

"She had restraints too, huh?" Ambrose drawls from the wall.

"It's a standard equipment for a bounty hunter," Roman says.

"If you say so," Ambrose says dubiously. He straightens up and clomps over to where Becky's snapping the restraints on Sasha's wrists. "For what it's worth, I still think this is a bad idea, but if anybody can pull it off, Becks, it's you two. So do it. Go get him."

Becky goes up to her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. "Take care of yourself, ya old junkheap. We'll see you on Yavin."

Ambrose nods. "Right. Good luck. You too, Sasha. Be careful."

"Same to you, Ambrose," Sasha says. Her gaze flicks over to Roman, who's still over near Cesartoo. "You remember what I said."

"Good luck," Roman says to her. "You too, Becky."

"Take care of him," Becky says, taking hold of Sasha's upper arm and pointing her blaster into the small of Sasha's back. "Let's go."

With that, she and Sasha head for the door. They step out into an empty hall, turn right, and quickly way away.

The door slides shut behind them.

And just like that, they're gone, off to go try to save AJ Styles.

In the middle of the room, Dean stands with his head down.

Carefully, the way he might a wild animal, Roman approaches.  "Are you all right?"

He's not surprised when Dean shakes his head. "I just got a feeling like we're not gonna see 'em again."

"We don't-"

Cesartoo suddenly beeps in what sounds like alarm, cutting right through Roman's attempt at reassurance. He and Dean exchange a look, and turn to Cesartoo, who's rocking back and forth on his feet.

On the screen above him, it says, " _Troopers in the bay!_ "

Dean and Roman scramble for the office window just in time to watch half a dozen Stormtroopers march into the docking bay, with another Imperial officer right behind them.

They stop right in front of Dean's ship, blasters raised.  The officer that Sasha had knocked unconscious suddenly staggers into view, and it looks like he has a 'comm unit in his hand.

"That," Dean says, face gone as pale as his armor, "is a problem."

Roman just looks at him.  "You _think_?"

That's a problem, all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought. Comments are always appreciated.


	18. Captured (IV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Escape and an offer.

**The Phenomenal Menace**  
XVIII. Captured (IV)

"Down," Roman says, grabbing Dean's arm and dragging him to the floor. "If they don't know we're in here, we'll have a little time to make a plan."

"Right," Dean mutters. "A plan. 'Cuz plans have worked super up until now. No plans. I'm vetoing plans." He grabs his helmet off the floor. "Cesartoo, I'm sure he could already see it, but did you warn Seth?"

Cesar2-D2, still plugged into the Star Destroyer's terminal, gives an affirmative beep.

"How much longer until we can take off?" Roman asks.

The words " _About 5 min"_ appear in white on the screen above Cesartoo's head.

"Five minutes," Roman mutters. He looks at Dean, who'd twisted around and gone up to his knees to peer out the window. He grabs the back of Dean's armor and yanks him down. "Get _down_. If they see you-"

"They're boarding the ship," Dean says, sinking back down. "They're gonna find Seth and the Ewoks. We gotta do something and we gotta do it now."

"Such as?" Roman asks. He doesn't need to. Somehow he just knows what's coming.

"There's two of us and eight of them," Dean says. "The odds aren't great, but we have surprise-"

"We have surprise on our side," Roman finishes with him. It's a terrible idea, just running out there blasters blazing, but they can't just sit here. "We'll be behind them when we leave the room, so we should be able to take at least half of them down before they figure out what happened. If they have a chance to raise an alarm, we're gonna be in trouble, but I don't see a way to do this being quiet. We have to go out there so Cesartoo can have time to get the ship free."

By the time he's done, Dean's grinning, big and bright. Roman doesn't want to notice the dimples right now, but he notices the dimples. Dean sounds surprised when he says, "I like the way you think."

"Of course you do," Roman says, tugging his helmet on. "I'm actually agreeing that we need to do something stupid. But I'm going first. You stay behind me. Don't even think of just running out there."

"Hey, who's the captain here?" Dean grumbles.

"For now, me. We get clear of this, you can be captain again. But you're still injured and you're carrying those plans." Roman checks his blaster rifle and finds it all charged up and ready to go. "That's two reasons you need to stay behind me."

"Well, yeah, if you wanna be all logical about it." The captain pulls his own helmet on and lifts his rifle. "After you, then."

Roman gets up and leads the way the door, staying hunched over so he can't be seen through the window. Dean follows just a pace or two behind, while Cesartoo stays in the control room, jacked into the Destroyer's computer.

The control room's door lets them out at the front of the docking bay, which puts them in front of the _Millennium Falcon_. All of the Stormtroopers and the Imperial officers are facing the ship because they have to order to get up the ramp. Not a single one of them is looking in Roman and Dean's direction as they jog over to a stack of equipment crates.

There's not much time to find cover because all at once commotion erupts from inside the _Falcon_ , with a blur of fuzz suddenly leaping down at one of the Stormtroopers. It's immediately followed by a burst of laser fire. Roman sees golden legs on the ramp.

Seth-3PO.

He steps out from cover and opens fire on the Stormtroopers who'd all begun to fire at Seth and the Ewoks, aiming for the gaps in the Troopers' armor. His first few shots hit the armor plates and bounce away, but his next two hit the mark, knocking a pair of Troopers off the _Falcon_ 's ramp and onto the deck.

Dean's right beside him, blaster rifle raised and firing at the backs of the two Imperial officers. It's dirty and unfair - Roman hates shooting people in the back - but in an us-or-them situation, there's no time to worry about fighting clean. The blasters are set to _heavy stun_ and not _kill_ at least, but given a choice, Roman would much rather have an honorable fight, even against scum that probably wouldn't show him mercy, than sneak attack from behind.

To his relief, the Imperial soldiers don't have a chance to fire off a shot of their own. Even with the two Ewoks getting in the way, it takes under a minute for Roman, Dean, and Seth-3PO to shoot all eight down. The ground around the ship is littered with unconscious bodies in a way that reminds Roman of gray and white leaves fallen out of a tree.

Seth-3PO shuffles down the ramp in his awkward, ungainly way, blaster rifle held at the ready. "Captain Ambrose? Is that you out there?"

Both Dean and Roman pull their helmets off - the things are like having boxes sealed over their heads - and toss them aside. "We're here," Dean says, arming sweat off his face. "Are you all right?"

"Not a scratch," Seth-3PO answers. "For once. The ship is coming online. We'll be ready to take off when Cesartoo gets us free."

" _Good_ ," Dean says. He takes off across the deck. "Roman, let's get all these guys out of the way, and get those two out of the cargo hold." The two Troopers he and Roman had taken this armor from. Roman had almost forgotten about them. "We better hurry."

Something deep Roman's gut tells him _hurry_ is exactly what they need to do. "Yeah, we better," he says, trotting to keep up. "I don't trust this."

"Me neither."

Jamie and Joey, the two little Ewoks, prove themselves to be surprisingly helpful for getting all the Troopers and officers moved out of the way. They're stronger than they look, those two, each able to drag a soldier that's twice their size without any trouble whatsoever. While they're doing that, Roman heads into the _Falcon_ with Dean to pull the two unconscious, near-naked Troopers out of the cargo hold and carry them down with the others.

If not for Seth-3PO standing at the bottom of the ramp, they all probably would have died.

Roman's huffing along behind an equally out-of-breath Dean to go set the Troopers down near one of the other shuttles in the bay when he hears Seth-3PO's loud, "Another squad! Another squad! Get down! Get down! Get down!"

Instinctively, Roman drops the Trooper and goes to the floor just in time for red laser bolts to blow by right where he had been standing. The bolts punch the docking bay's walls, sending chunks of smoking metal flying through the air. He hears Dean curse and looks up in time to see the captain scrambling for cover behind a shuttle's landing leg. It's not much, but it's enough, and Roman follows as fast he can.

Not fast enough.

A stray blaster bolt clips him on the side of his hip, right between the armor plates. The pain is sudden and shocking, huge, just this searing burn that feels like it's boiling him from the inside. He collapses facedown on the deck, too stunned to even think.

_Heavy stunned_ , some part of him thinks. He'd laugh if he could, but it aches too much.

He doesn't even register that he's being moved until he's rolled over onto his back and finds himself blinking up at two anxious, furry faces. They're under something. A shuttle. Blaster bolts ping and whine off metal.

_Stormtroopers._

_Dean._

"Hide," he tells the Ewoks. "Go hide."

They scramble away, heading back toward the shuttle's rear. While they do that, Roman forces the pain into a little box and rolls up to his knees. He hadn't lost his rifle, thankfully. Neither has Dean, who's crouched behind the shuttle's landing leg and is firing at the dozen or so Stormtroopers who are advancing on them.

Roman drags himself over to the other side of the landing leg, doing his best to ignore the ache in his lower body. He darts out long enough to open fire, and grunts in satisfaction when a Stormtrooper falls over.

It's not enough. Another Trooper steps over the fallen one. More fill in behind that one.

Blaster bolts pelt the metal they're crouched behind like angry rain. It's almost too hot to touch. But there's nowhere else to go. They're trapped. Either they're going to die or they're going to be captured. More Troopers open fire from around the docking bay.,

They're trapped.

If the desperate, angry look on Dean's face is anything to go by, he knows it.

"Seth!" he bellows at the top of his lungs. "Could really use some help here!"

He darts around the landing leg and fires blind at the Stormtroopers advancing on them. Roman does the same, and manages to hit a couple. But it's not enough. He can see more flooding in through the door. His hip throbs sickly at him. The noise is deafening. He tries to find his center, to find his battle cool, but it's lost in all the chaos in his head.

_Not like this,_ he prays, firing in a wide semicircle, hoping to scatter Troopers who are less than twenty feet away. _Not like this_.

They can't die cornered like this.

All of a sudden, Dean goes toppling over backward like he's been kicked. Everything seems to slow down. Roman watches in stunned dismay as Dean's head bounces off the deck. The blaster rifle clatters away; Roman can barely hear it over the buzzing in his own ears. Dean lays flat out on his back, and doesn't move.

" _No_!" he shouts, scrambling away from the landing leg to go to him.

To protect him. To defend him.

_No no no no, this can't be happening_.

Leaving cover is a mistake.

A blaster bolt pings off the the landing leg and punches Roman in the back of the shoulder, sneaking right into the exposed area . It's not a glancing hit this time like it was off his hip. It catches him full-force and the pain supernova dwarfs the first shot, the burn licking outward like a flame touched to dry tinder. It travels down his arm and sinks into his chest, just a solid band of _hurt_ that renders him completely unable to move, to breathe, to _think_.

He collapses right where he is, shaking, just trying to get his stubborn lungs to unlock.

_Breathe._

This can't be the end.

"-roman? Hey. Hey, Roman. Roman? Hey, ya gotta stay with me. Stay with me. Roman!"

A worried voice penetrates the fuzz. Roman punches his way past it. Lifts his head a little. Realizes there's a hand cupping his face. Dean's. Wide blue eyes stare at him out of a pale face.

_Alive_ eyes.

He's laying on top of Dean, he realizes, confused, and somehow they're close enough to kiss.

He's not sure how it happened, and he's not actually sure he minds.

But he doesn't have time to ask what's going on because something explodes nearby with a deafening roar and a wash of raging heat. Somehow, Roman finds himself being rolled over and his head completely covered under what feels like a couple of arms. A second explosion rocks the docking bay. And then a third. And a fourth.

Roman forgets all about his pain in the sudden adrenaline surge: they're still pinned down and there are still Stormtroopers in the hangar bay. And he's hurt but be can't afford to let that slow him down because he and Captain Ambrose have plans they need to deliver to Yavin IV.

They have to survive.

When the explosions stop, whatever's covering his head - Dean's arms, it turns out - pull away. Roman raises his head in time to see Dean cautiously peering around the shuttle's shot-up landing leg. The docking bay is full of thick, choking smoke. Stormtroopers litter the floor, white armor against the destroyed black tile.

There's a couple Troopers still staggering around. Roman watches Seth-3PO shoot them from the _Falcon_ 's ramp, just as calm and cool as anything.

Afterward, the droid turns toward the shuttle. "Captain? Captain Ambrose?" His nasal voice sounds like it's coming from very far away, muffled deep underground. "Captain? Are you alive?"

"Yeah," Dean says, leaving the safety of the shuttle's underside and climbing to his feet. "Yeah, I'm here." He turns, though. "Roman? You all right?"

"I don't know," Roman admits. He drags himself free of the shuttle and manages to stand, but nearly stumbles when he tries to take a step. His whole hip feels like it wants to buckle.

Dean's there in a flash to offer a supporting shoulder. "I gotcha. Hang onto me."

Jamie and Joey appear at Roman's other side, walking close to him like they're ready to catch him if he falls. It's weird and weirdly touching.

"I suggest we hurry," Seth-3PO says. "Cesartoo locked the door and freed the ship, but it won't hold long."

Even though it's muffled, Roman can definitely hear banging.

He coughs in the smoke, concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. He's all right - the pain's already starting to recede - but he can't deny it's easier to walk having Dean there to take some of his weight. Dean's pale, but unwavering.

They make it up into the _Millennium Falcon._ Dean helps Roman into the cockpit and sits him in the co-pilot's chair, making quick work of the straps. He directs the Ewoks into the two rear seats and gets them buckled in, too, before he throws himself into the captain's chair.

"Hang on!" he calls.

As beat up as she is, the _Falcon_ bucks and shudders like she's about to fall apart when her captain kicks her into sub-light speeds, but she holds. She holds just fine when she flies out of the Star Destroyer's docking bay. And she holds fine again when Dean drops her down under the Destroyer's belly and throws her into hyperspeed.

She holds.

As soon as that horrible compression eases off of Roman's chest, he leans back in his chair and breathes a sigh of relief.

They made it.

For the way-too-manyth time in the last two days, they escaped by the very tips of their fingers.

Somehow.

* * *

"We gotta stop doing this," Roman mutters after a couple minutes of silence.

Hyperspace blurs past them, all meaningless smears of white and black.

"You're telling me," Dean mutters back at him. He's slumped to one side, as pale as his armor, every bit as sweat-drenched and exhausted as Roman feels. "Seth, you up here still?"

"Yes, Captain," Seth-3PO says from the back of the cockpit.

Dean swivels around to regard him. "You did good back there. You too, Cesartoo. Thank you. Both of you."

Cesar2-D2 rocks side-to-side and chirps something at them.

Seth-3PO draws himself up to his full height. "That's eleven you owe me, Captain."

"Nine," Dean says immediately. "Those two on Coruscant don't count. You started them yourself. Actually, you know what? Eight. You owed me one for that mess on Endor, your Highness. Wait. Seven. I let you keep your Ewoks. I owe you seven."

"Even so." Seth-3PO huffs. "You need to be more careful, Captain. You both do. The galaxy would be terribly boring without you. Infinitely safer, but horribly boring."

"Got that right," Roman says. He stretches his shoulder, grimacing. Pain sinks its greedy fingers back into him.

"I'll go get the medkit," Dean says. He unbuckles his seatbelt and stands up fast, but the instant he does, he sways so bad he'd have fallen if Roman hadn't reached up to steady him. Dean presses a hand to his chest and his knees buckle. Fortunately, he just sits back down where he was, eyes blank and his mouth open.

" _I'll_ get the medkit," Seth-3PO says, shuffling for the door. "You two stay here. Humans."

Meanwhile, Roman shakes Dean's shoulder, concerned. "Dean? Hey. Captain? You with me?"

Dean blinks a few times, slow at first, but steadily growing faster and more normal. He focuses on Roman's face. "What happened?"

"You tell me," Roman says. "One second you were fine, and the next..."

"Dizzy."

"You hit your head when you... You got shot. I saw you get shot." In all that confusion, he'd forgotten. His hands fly over Dean's shoulders and arms. "Where did you get shot?"

"Here." Dean pats his chest, right over his heart. "The armor deflected it, but I felt like I got kicked. I got a head rush when I stood up. I think I'm okay."

"Take your armor off," Roman demands. _Shot in the chest._ "Let me make sure."

"You'll both need to take your armor off," Seth-3PO says, as he shuffles back into the cockpit. "Although I'd suggest you take it to the bunk room and close the door if you're going to do that."

"Seth!" Dean splutters.

"You'd be more comfortable doing that, is all I mean, Captain," Seth-3PO says primly. "You want to keep your privacy."

Cesar2-D2 rolls toward the front of the cockpit, chirping something. Roman looks down at the display screen on the control panel in front of him. " _I'll take the controls. You two should go get patched up._ _But Captain, before you go, why are we headed to Tatooine?_ "

"Because Yavin is about eighty hours from here," Dean says, rubbing his eyes. "We aren't going to make it that long without repairs. You know that as well as I do."

" _Right, but wouldn't Bespin be a better choice_?"

"We're still twenty-six hours from there. We can be to Tatooine in twelve, even hobbled. If Enzo's around, he'll hopefully have some parts we can use to patch us up. I'd rather we do it than trust it to anyone else right now. We should have just gone to Tatooine in the first place like I said." Dean slams a gloved fist down on his chair's arm. "If we had, AJ, Becks, and Sasha, they'd still be here instead of..."

His jaw clenches around the rest of that sentence, and his eyes shine with sudden tears. He blinks them back, swallowing.

Cesartoo makes a sympathetic sound. Roman bows his head, regret and sorrow heavy on his shoulders.

That shouldn't have had to happen.

From the back of the cockpit, Seth-3PO says, "I suppose the best thing we can do is make sure those plans get to Yavin. That means we need to get you two healed and rested. Captain, Commander, can you walk? You'll be more comfortable in the bunks."

"Commander?" Roman says, glancing at Dean.

"That is the traditional rank of a co-pilot, isn't it?" Seth says.

"He was a captain of his own ship," Dean says, subdued. "Don't know if he'd want to step down to being a commander."

The offer is there, though, tentative but unmistakable. "Commander Roman Reigns," Roman says. "Commander Reigns. Has a nice ring to it. And you need a co-pilot."

"He is part of the reason we've survived the last few days," Seth-3PO chimes in. "Aside from me, of course. And I suppose your piloting helped, too, Captain. The point is we need a co-pilot, his skill sets mesh well with yours, and for some inexplicable reason he actually wants the job. As unlikely as it is, I think he might actually like you. Don't be stubborn."

" _He fits well_ ," Cesartoo adds. " _You make a good team_."

Captain Ambrose's mouth twitches. It's a ghost of a smile, small and tired. "You know, I feel the need to point out that we wouldn't even be in this mess if not for this guy. We'd have run Bubba's cargo and been well on our way to repaying our debt. For all you yell at me for causing trouble, we've had fifty times more this week than we did all of last year. I'm just saying I might not be the only trouble magnet here. Think about that."

"That _is_ true," Seth muses. "On second thought, the amount of trouble has increased exponentially with him here. Maybe it-"

Cesartoo cuts him off with a series of indignant beeps. " _Quiet, Seth. We both agreed this is a good thing. Give him the job, Captain. Please."_

"Fine, fine." Dean looks at Roman again. "Forty-five percent cut on profit sound fair? It won't be a lot in the beginning, but once I get the Hutts off my back, that'll be a decent pay-out. We won't starve until then."

"That's fair," Roman says. It's very fair. Roman's heard of captains who pay a lot less. He extends a hand, ignoring the miserable throbbing ache ache in his shoulder when he moves. "I'll take it."

"Welcome aboard, Commander," Captain Ambrose says. "Now, come on. Let's go get you patched up. I'm hurting just looking at you."

"We're getting you patched up, too, Captain," Roman says in a tone that brooks no refusal. "I want to see for myself you're all right."

"Commander," Captain Ambrose says, a warning in his voice. He looks like he's on the verge of cracking a smile, though.

"Captain," Commander Reigns replies, stubborn. Despite the pain, he can feel himself about to laugh.

They're being ridiculous.

"This was a mistake," Seth-3PO mutters. "Cesartoo, this is all your fault. We have _two_ children on this ship now, thanks to you. As if one wasn't bad enough..."

Cesar2-D2 just chortles, sounding delighted.


	19. Closer (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Ambrose and Commander Reigns, decompressing. Double update since I didn't update last month like I wanted to.

**The Phenomenal Menace  
** XIX: Closer (I)

An arduous trek to the bunk room later, Roman stands still and patient while Dean carefully unhooks and unfastens all the armor. Getting it off is much faster than getting it on was, with Dean just tossing all the plates onto the floor until Roman's left standing in the skintight black bodysuit. It zips in the front, and Roman could have undone it himself - the painkiller capsule Dean had given him had begun to kick in - but Dean murmurs, "I got it, I got it. Relax."

"You just wanted an excuse to undress me, Captain," Roman protests, the painkiller loosening his tongue. "Admit it."

"You blame me, Commander?" Dean says, carefully working the zip down under Roman's navel. "Gotta admit, this wasn't how I envisioned it."

The room is cool, but Roman feels warm. "No?"

"Figured there'd be more blasters firing."

Roman snorts. "True."

The zip stops just above Roman's private areas. Dean carefully peels the material off of Ronan's chest and arms, and whistles. "Ouch. Looks like that almost went all the way through." The skin around Roman's left collarbone is angry, sunburned red. He doesn't even want to know what the entry point on the back of his shoulder looks like.

"You got enough bacta?"

"I got a whole case of it, actually, but we should really get this-" Dean tugs the bodysuit down "-the rest of the way off. I wanna look at your hip."

"No!" Roman says, batting Dean's hands away. "I don't have anything on under this."

He is completely, stark naked.

"Um." Dean clears his throat. "Grab the pillow from your bunk then? I won't look."

"You'll look."

"I might peek. I saw you peeking when we got dressed."

"I did no such thing."

"You peeked. Look, what do you wanna do here? If you can get them off yourself, I can look at the wall or something. Otherwise, you're just gonna have to let me look for a second. I promise you I won't touch. I won't even say anything."

After a moment's hesitation, Roman grabs a pillow off the top bunk and holds it over his weapon with his good hand. His other arm is pretty much useless right now, sore as it is, and he'd need two hands to get the body suit the rest of the way off.  Easier to let Dean take it off.  Still embarrassing, though.  "Hurry up."

To his credit, Dean's quick and quiet about it, hunkering down to help Roman step clear of the material. He doesn't look at the pillow, but he does look at Roman's bare backside when he examines the injury on the side of Roman's hip. Roman sees him do it, gaze flicking from hip to rear end and up to Roman's face.  Not a hint of repentance in his little smile, either, of course.

Of course.

But all he says is, "Lay down on your stomach. I can patch up both that way."

Roman glares down at him. "One, you better look away, and two, take your armor off. Now. You got shot, too. I wanna make sure you're all right."

"I wasn't really hurt, but if you insist."  Dean gets to his feet and moves into the center of the room, deliberately turning his back to Roman.

Roman ducks onto the lower bunk and uses his good hand to pull the sheet up over his legs and rear end, right up to the edge of the wound on his hip. The pain is much less now, tuned down to a muted throb that's easy to ignore.

He turns his head to watch Dean undress, clumsy hands unfastening the armor and dumping it on the bunk above his until all he's wearing is his bodysuit. He unzips it and peels it off more slowly than he needs to. Roman watches through half-lidded eyes as Dean's broad back and tightly-tapered waist come into view, followed by-

_Oh._

The top half of a pale rear peeks out above the black fabric. Roman doesn't look away from it.  He should, but it's only fair for him to look, since Dean did. Dean, naturally, glances around and smiles. Then he slips a hand down into the back of the bodysuit, and tugs his blue undergarment up to cover himself. Roman frowns, disconcerted and flustered. He thinks he might actually be disappointed.

No. No, he's not.

Dean finishes undressing, and, clad only in his underclothes, turns to look at Roman.

There is a fist-sized red mark dead-center on his chest, ugly and dark. A direct hit. Roman stares at it. "That looks like it hurts."

"It does." Dean admits, looking down at it. "It felt like somebody kicked me. I thought my heart stopped for a second. Lucky I had the armor on."

"Lucky."

"Yeah." Dean grabs the medkit and carries it over Roman's bunk. He sits with it in his lap, digs out one of the bacta packs. "You're the unlucky one here. They got you twice where your armor didn't cover."

"I'll live," Roman says.

"Yes, you will. There is no dying on my watch, Commander."

"Or on mine, Captain."

"Right. Quiet now. Lemme...". Dean holds up the bacta pack and rips it open. He spreads a thin layer of the cool gel over the wound on the back of Roman's shoulder and smears a little more in what Roman can feel is the hole where the bolt hit him. It doesn't feel as deep as he expected.

Where the bacta goes, the low burn immediately subsides. Roman rolls his shoulder a little and finds movement already easier.

After Dean spreads more bacta on Roman's hip with blunt-but-gentle fingers, he frees a couple of gauze pads and covers both wounds up.

"There," he grunts when he's all done. "Good as new."

"Thanks," Roman says. He notices there's still bacta left in the pack on Dean's lap, and plucks it up. Careful not to dislodge his bandages, he turns over so he can sit up, careful to keep the sheet covering him. "Lemme look at your arm."

"Mm." Dean turns so Roman can look at the arm that Styles shot back on Endor. Roman pulls away the dressing he'd put on it approximately a lifetime ago, and nods in satisfaction. The bacta had done its job, shrinking the finger-length wound down to about half its size and turning it shiny with new scar tissue. Roman smears the last of bacta from the pack on it anyway - it's not totally healed yet - and puts a smaller bandage on it.

After that, he turns Dean's head to the side so he can examine the head wound, also courtesy of Styles. It's a lot less noticeable, too, shrunk down to a scabbed-over bump that'll heal just fine on it own. Probably doesn't even hurt anymore.

The mark on Dean's chest Roman flattens his palm over. It's hot to the touch. Roman can feel Dean's heart bumping fast underneath it. Dean sucks in a pained breath, but doesn't flinch away.

"Prolly just gonna bruise," he says.

"Probably," Roman agrees. "That was too close."

"Every call we've had since we met was too close," Dean mutters. He closes the medkit and gathers up the trash. "I dunno how good an idea this was, you bein' my co-pilot."

"Then why did you say yes?" Roman asks.

"Why do you wanna stay?" Dean counters.

They look at each other, both of them refusing to answer the question or to acknowledge whatever it is in the air between them.

Eventually, Dean gets up and leaves the room to go put the medkit away. He's gone for a lot longer than Roman expects him to be, but when he returns, he's dressed in one of his off-white shirts and blue pants with the red stripe up the leg. He has Roman's bag and clothes with him, too. Must have gone to retrieve it all from the cargo hold where Roman had left it all earlier.

"Here," the captain says, setting it all down by Roman's legs. "Think I'm gonna head up to the cockpit for a while."

Roman frees his sleeping pants and pulls them on under the sheet. "You should rest," he says before Dean can leave. "Cesartoo said he'll keep watch. We're in hyperspace. Nothing's gonna happen while we're moving. We need to be rested and awake for when we stop. Seems to be that's when the trouble happens."

"I don't think I'm gonna sleep," Dean says, but he sits down on the edge of his bunk anyway. "We left 'em back there. The others. We never shoulda done that. Becks and Sasha, they should be here right now. We should be on our way to Bespin 'n seein' them off to hand over these plans." He flicks the chain around his neck, and under his shirt, the data crystal bounces. "We shouldn't have let 'em go."

"No, we shouldn't have," Roman says, "but how would we have stopped them? Lock them in the cargo hold? They were bound and determined to go after him."

"And get themselves killed, most likely."

"Most likely."

Dean stares at his hands. "I don't think they were really planning to rescue him."

"I think they were gonna try," Roman says, carefully sitting up. "But I think failing that, they were gonna make sure he never made it to the Emperor. With what he knew..."

"Better he dies by Becky and Sasha's hands in that case."

"They're protecting the Rebellion the best way they know how," Roman says. "If this planet killer weapon is real, then I think I understand why. I respect that. A weapon like that, if they find the Rebels' base, the war is over. The Empire wins. No more freedom. I guess you do what you have to to protect your secrets. They're doing what they think is right. I don't like it, either, believe me, but we didn't really have a choice back there. We don't have a choice now. We need to get these plans to Yavin."

"We're gonna. That much I can do for 'em. For her."

Roman clears his throat and gets up to sit at Dean's side. He scoots close and rests a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You loved her."

"Not enough." Gruff, almost harsh. Dean's as tense as a block of wood under Roman's fingers. "I knew I was gonna just let her down in the end, so I let her go. She found someone who loves her the way she needed. He died back there on Endor, too. So did Sasha's."

"She didn't say that," Roman says. "I know Sasha lost hers, but I didn't hear Becky say anything."

"She told me when you were sleeping. 'S prolly the other reason they're so eager to go after AJ. Lost a lot, both of 'em. I'm sure they wanna make it count for something. I never even thought about that 'til just now. Just - this whole thing is..."

"I know," Roman says, slipping his arm around Dean's shoulders. "We'll make it count for something."

"We, huh?"

"We. Tatooine, Yavin, and beyond."

They sit there in silence for a bit, Dean's head resting in the crook of Roman's shoulder and Roman gently rubbing Dean's arm.

 _We_.

It has a good sound.

* * *

The first lesson Roman learned as a boy was to never get attached to people. His father left his mother before Roman was even born, and didn't even come home until Roman was nine years old. When he did get home, he filled Roman's head with a romanticized version of life as a bounty hunter: the fights, catching the bad guys, tracking, detective work, traveling to exotic places. To a young boy, it sounded much more exciting than going to school and becoming a doctor or a teacher like his mom wanted.

He left home at aged ten with his father to go train to be a bounty hunter. His mother has never forgiven his father for that. Roman's no so sure he's forgiven his father, either. Dad taught him for eight years, and then disappeared again, leaving eighteen-year-old Roman to make his own way. Although Roman did and although he became one of the best around at it, it's been a long road that he's traveled alone.

"Don't let yourself get attached to anyone," his father said, "because the second you start caring about someone, that's the second you lose your ability to be objective. You can't be an effective bounty hunter if you're not objective. You can't let emotion or caring get in the way. Those things blind you."

He sees that crystal clear now.

Back on the Star Destroyer, he'd reacted emotionally instead of rationally when Dean got shot. Rationally, he should have stayed behind cover and kept firing. He should have tried to maintain a barrier between the Stormtroopers and the shuttle.  But instead, he'd left cover because he'd wanted to protect and defend Dean. It was blind instinct, and he'd been shot for it. He was just lucky it was a shoulder wound and not something worse.

Wouldn't have been any good to either of them if he was dead.

Even so, he's not sure he'd react any differently next time, and he'd be lying if he said that didn't scare him.

 _I'm compromised_ , he realizes.

Objectivity is gone.

Sometimes people caught in intense situations become close. Roman knows that, too, and maybe that's part of it, but he knows as sure as he knows his own name that protecting and defending Captain Ambrose and this ship - the droids, and even the Ewoks - is his concern now. It's his mission. Getting the data crystal to Yavin, that's the mission, too, but his primary objective now is to keep everyone on this ship safe.

Especially her captain.

Who yawns.

Roman, whose back's begun to tighten up, says, "Think you can sleep now?"

"Doubt it," Dean says.

"Here." Roman swings his legs up on the bunk and scoots back toward the wall, stretching out on his side. "Lay down."

Dean looks over his shoulder, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"Just lay down, Captain," Roman says. "Trust me."

"This isn't some weird s-"

"No," Roman cuts him off. "No, Dean. Just trust me. Lay down. I promise I don't bite."

"You're not gonna be very comfortable, though," Dean protests. "Bunk's not really big enough for both of us. And your shoulder's gonna get all crampy. I don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't." Roman feels a little like he's trying to coax a suspicious wild animal to him. "There's more room than you think, anyway. Plus, we have plenty of painkillers and they're working just fine right now. So's the bacta. We both need to rest." He pauses, thinking. "I know I'll sleep better if you're here. Just for now. Seeing you get shot..."

That's maybe overstating it, and it earns him a strange look, but eventually Dean lays down on his side with his back to Roman, leaving a little bit of distance between them. "If it'll help you sleep better, I guess that's all right.  I'd be a bad captain if I didn't take care of my crew, right?"

Roman scoots up to spoon him from behind, slotting his knees into the back of Dean's and pressing his chest into Dean's back. He slips his arm around Dean's side, too, and he smiles to himself as he does: worked like a charm. "The worst. You don't want to be the worst."

"No," Dean says, huffy. "Just - if it starts hurting, let me know, and I'll grab you another painkiller."

"I will," Roman promises. Maybe Dean really dpes feel like he needs to take care of his crew, too. Like a good captain.

That's not such a bad thing.

After maybe thirty seconds, Dean sighs. "We gotta make it to Yavin. I don't want to do this, but whatever it takes, we gotta get there. I broke her heart once. I'm not gonna do that to her again."

"No," Roman says. "We'll get it there."

"There you go with that 'we' again."

"Cesartoo said we work well together."

"We're good at getting hurt together," Dean says with a little laugh. "Good at getting into trouble together, apparently. I really hope this isn't a sign of how this is gonna go for us from here on out. 'Cuz I really don't wanna have to keep doin this. I already lost probably ten years off my life this week."

"You and me both," Roman says through a yawn. "I'm gonna be a bald old man before you know it."

"I hope not, 'cuz you got real great hair. It's pretty."

Roman pinches Dean's side. "Don't start with that pretty talk again."

"You realize I can bust you for insubordination now, right, Commander? For real. As your captain, I'm telling you you're pretty. Even your behind is pretty.  Don't argue."

"Do you harass all your crew like this?"

"I don't harass them like _that_ , but I do harass them. You've heard me.  Why do you think Seth and Cesartoo talk back to me the way they do? If I dish it out, I gotta be able to take it. Keeps things fun."

"So I have your permission to harass you back, in other words."

"Absolutely."

"Hmm." Roman, for no good reason, lets his hand drift down to rest on Dean's hip. "What about fraternization?"

He's not sure he wants to, but suddenly he's not so sure he doesn't.

That's a maybe he might want an answer to for later.

"F...uh." Dean clears his throat and moves Roman's hand back up. "Well, I look the other way when Seth and Cesartoo do, uh, whatever it is they do."

"They don't, do they? Can they?  What do they do?  Do I want to know?"

"Cesartoo will deny it but I walked in on them doing some weird stuff once. Exposed wires and open panels and things I would really rather not have seen.  Cesartoo says it was just upgrades and 'electrical corrections', but the noises they were both making..." Dean shudders. "I don't know and I don't wanna know. But Cesartoo says it was a one-time thing. And I've never caught 'em again after that. I do know that Seth has a, uh, particular fondness for one of the tools in the engine room. And I'm pretty sure Cesartoo has a crush on the ship's computer."

"You're making that up," Roman accuses, lifting his head. "Droids don't get crushes.  They can't."

Dean twists around and smiles up at Roman. "Sure they can.  Although, yeah, I made that part about the ship's computer up.  I actually think Cesartoo has a crush on _Seth_ , but Seth's kind of weird about it. I dunno. I don't stick my nose in their business.  But no. I'm not making up the part about Seth. You'll get to hear it yourself some nights. Finally someone has to share my misery."

"Oh, I can't wait," Roman says dryly.

He settles back down and Dean shifts back where he was.

After a bit, Dean says, "If - uh, you want to.  Fraternize.  After Yavin.  All right?  If.  I talk a lot.  Talk's mostly what it is.  Doesn't have to actually mean anything.  I'm not - I don't...  I _wouldn't._ I'd stop, if it bothered you.  It can just be talk.  Might be better if it was just talk."

"Better for who?" Roman wonders aloud.

"For you."

Roman lifts his head again and presses a soft kiss into Dean's temple. Maybe it is just the post-battle rush and he'll regret this later, but for now he lays back down and slips his arm back over Dean's side. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that, Captain."

"After Yavin," Dean says quietly, his eyes sliding shut. "Get some rest, Commander. That's an order."

"Aye-aye, Captain," Roman says. "As your second-in-command, I recommend you do the same."

"All right."

Before he falls completely under, Roman throws his leg over Dean's hip just to pin him to the bunk's thin mattress that much more. Roman hears the tired grumble, but the stubborn captain doesn't try to move.

And knowing that his new crew and captain are, as much as he can make them, safe and protected right now, Roman goes to sleep.


	20. Closer (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onto the next leg of the adventure. Kinda.

**XX. Closer (II)**

Tatooine: the brown dustball of a planet where it all started.

When it comes into view, Roman's seated in the upper turret, so focused on his targeting computer that he doesn't notice the low throb in his shoulder or the mild ache in his hip. His hands are relaxed on the quadlasers' stick controls, though, because there's actually nothing to target.

They'd dropped out of hyperspace twenty minutes ago to an empty stretch of space - no Star Destroyers looming like spear points, no troop ships, no fighters. The only things Roman had seen through his viewer window was the black of space and the occasional distant twinkling white of a star or a planet.

Even as they approach Tatooine, Roman doesn't lower his guard.

He has a good reason not to.

Just as Roman spots them, Dean swears over the 'comm. " _Coupla Imperial troop ships in orbit here_."

"I see them," Roman replies. "What are you thinking?"

" _That's what was here when we left. They're small carriers. Scanners don't pick anything else up. There's jammers on Tatooine, too, so I think we'll be all right. As much as we can be, anyway._ " Dean pauses, though. " _Are you getting any bad feelings or anything? You said that last time. You had a bad feeling right before we dropped out._ "

Roman glances up at the turret's domed ceiling, follows the path of wires with his eyes, tries to gauge how he feels. "No," he says. "Not like I had before. Even so, those Troopers - you know they'll be looking for us."

" _I know, but-_ "

"-what choice do we have?" Roman finishes for him. "I know."

" _Let's just get this done as fast as we can_."

"Agreed."

They fall silent while Dean gets permission to dock at the station on Mos Eisley. Roman waits on pins and needles as he does this, just waiting for something to go wrong - it would be just their luck - or for another Imperial ship to appear and start firing, but all that happens is some bland-voiced person on Mos Eisley gives Dean clearance to land on pad three.

Dean guides the battered  _Millennium Falcon_  into Tatooine's dust-choked atmosphere and further into the planet's pale sky. " _I think you and Seth are clear to get out of those turrets_ ,  _Roman,_ " he says. " _Looks like we're gonna make it to the ground just fine._ "

And they do.

After Roman helps the Ewoks lift Seth-3PO out of the lower turret, he heads up to the cockpit just in time to strap in as Dean sets them down on the same gritty launch pad that they'd left days ago.

As beat up as the ship is, her captain sets her down smooth.

"There we go," he says, powering her down and swiveling to look at Roman. Seems well-rested, bright-eyed and eager, and showing no signs of the last few days' wear and tear other than a few scratches on his face and the fading yellowing remnants of a bruise on the side of his head. He'd thrown the battered leather jacket he'd been wearing back at the cantina over his shirt, the butt of a blaster peeking out of an inside pocket.

Roman, armed with two blasters of his own and his remaining stock of grenades, nods in satisfaction. With another pain tab in his system and plenty of adrenaline, he's ready himself. "All right. Let's hit it."

Cesartoo beeps from behind them, sounding as eager to be moving as Roman is.

They leave Seth-3PO and the Ewoks in the ship. Cesartoo had given Seth some instructions for what he should have Jamie and Joey do to start getting things ready for repairs. Jamie and Joey seemed every bit as eager to be doing something useful as Seth did to have someone to order around, so they'd all gone straight to work while Dean led Roman and Cesartoo down the ramp.

Same Mos Eisley.

It probably hasn't changed in a hundred years, so Roman doesn't know why he would have expected anything to be different in a few days. It's a small spaceport city in the middle of a desert, boiling hot and sand-blasted, dry. Roman can practically feel the moisture evaporating out of his skin the moment he steps outside.

Dean's plan, explained over trays of hot mash and meat two hours ago, is straightforward: visit a junker named he knows on the outskirts of town, and hope that Enzo has at least enough parts that they can fix the hyperdrive and the hull. Cesartoo has the list, and can decide on the fly what parts they can live without, what they can make work, and what they absolutely need. Roman and Dean are there to carry everything.

It's nice to have a plan that doesn't rely on shooting or running away from something.

Still, as they walk behind Cesartoo, who rolls along ahead of them, Roman doesn't lower his guard. They head down the town's main street, passing by rows of low, sun-baked clay buildings, where withered humans and non-humans alike are lazing around in shade, too bothered by the heat to move. None of them even spare anyone in the street a second glance. Roman watches the shadows just the same, ready to start shooting at the slightest sign of trouble.

For his part, Captain Ambrose appears not to be paying attention at all, his gait unhurried and his shoulders slouched. It's deceptive: Dean's eyes - the same scalded blue as the sky above them - never stop moving, taking in everything while giving the appearance of noticing nothing.

They pass through the narrow corridor of buildings, take a left on the dirt street, and emerge in a wide-open sort of marketplace. There's junkers and scrap merchant stalls loaded with ship parts on one side, moisture farm parts and other good on the other. At some of the stalls, merchants are bartering loudly with their customers, while in others, the traders are hunkered down as deep in shade of their awnings as they can. There's a vague smell of some spicy cooking and oil and dirt mixed in the air.

Cesartoo suddenly gives an alarmed beep and veers close to the stalls on their left. Roman's heart jags when he spots a trio of Stormtroopers across the way. They're all standing together in front of one particular stall, their backs to where Roman, Dean, and Cesartoo are walking.

Dean turns his head away from the Troopers and mutters, "Just keep going. Turn left at the end of the row. Enzo's yard the the second one on the right."

The Troopers leave the stall just as Roman and Dean turn the corner. "Don't like this."

"We're almost there." Dean points at a low brown building, behind which there's a lot of sand and the carcasses of a whole lot of old ships.

Suddenly Roman wonders if any of his ship made it here.

He hopes not.

Dean goes into the building first, with Roman and Cesartoo on his heels. "Enzo!" Dean calls, while Roman takes a look around at a front room that's chock full of scrap metal and junk. There's a box of droid parts in one corner, gathering dust, and springs and other parts hanging from the ceiling that Roman has to duck around them. "Hey, Enzo! You here?"

"Yo yo yo, Deano!" a voice calls back. A Toydarian - a two-foot tall winged guy with webbed feet, a snout down to his chin, and spotted hair sticking up from the top of his head - flies out from behind a curtained-off area at the back. "Hey-hey! Whaddya know, Deano?" Amber eyes cut over to Roman as Enzo flies up to about eye level. "Whoa-ho. That's some armor you got there, friendo. How much you want for it?"

"This is Roman," Dean tells Enzo. "My new co-pilot."

Enzo's mouth drops open behind his snout. "Get  _out_. You got yourself a co-pilot? Did Mustafar freeze over?" He flies even closer to examine Roman. "Huh. A little bit tall and I dunno 'bout all that hair."

"You're one to talk," Roman replies, eyeing the wild tufts on Enzo's head. "We're here for parts."

At those words, Enzo flies over to Dean, glaring. "What. Did you do. To my girl?"

"This time? Nothing. It was Empire," Dean tells him. "We got caught up in something, and before we could get out of it, the Empire blew some new holes in her hull. My hyperdrive is wrecked. Both of 'em. We need parts and we need 'em in a hurry."

"Bastards!" Enzo spits. Roman figures it's probably some Toydarian swear. "Every day I see ten, fifteen more of of those Troopers snoopin' around here, hasslin' people. Between them 'n the Hutts, gettin' to be so a junker can't even do honest business 'round here. Hey, speakin' of Hutts, you oughtta know, I got Bubba in here just yesterday askin' after you."

Roman happens to be watching Dean when Enzo says this, so he sees how Dean goes tight, like someone ratcheted up his spine. "He's here?"

"Word got back to him you never dropped off your cargo like you shoulda. He thinks you mighta ran with it." Enzo flies off behind a counter, which, like the rest of the shop is covered with junk. "Guessin' that's not it."

"Lost it when my cargo hold got smashed open," Dean says, following him over. "Is he in the city, still?"

"Far as I know," Enzo says. He twists around. "Cass! Hey, Cass! You see Bubba blobbin' his butt around when you were in town this morning?"

Just a moment later, a tall, hairy brown Wookie ducks out of the back, growling something that sounds like a question. Wookies tend to be huge, lean, and strong. In a small way, they resemble the bear-like Ewoks in the face. They speak in growls and barks instead of Standard. Roman's never picked up the language.

The Wookie - Cass - takes one look at Dean and sort of smiles, and dumps the piece of scrap in his hands onto the counter. He growls something that's completely unintelligible, but that makes Dean shake his head and mutter, "Great."

"What?" Roman demands.

"He did see Bubba this morning." Dean curses under his breath. "Well, listen. Roman and I, we got something kind of urgent we need to do. It's important. That means we gotta get my ship fixed up as much as we can and get off this rock before the Stormtroopers or Bubba catches us. Cesartoo's got the list of what we need. I'll take whatever you can get us off that."

"Sure thing, Deano," Enzo says, zipping over toward a terminal on another counter and hitting a button to reveal a port. "Plug in, buddy. Let's see what we can do for ya. Sounds like you got a world of trouble on ya tail."

"We do."

"Well, uh." Enzo flies up until he's able to stand on the counter on his spindly little legs, and gives Dean a careful look. "I hate to say this, my friend, but we're gonna have to charge ya for this. Times is tight, and it's only gettin' tighter."

"How much?" Dean demands. He and Roman both follow Cesartoo over to the terminal plug.

"'Pends on what you need," Enzo says.

Cesartoo extends his socket and plugs it in. It takes just a second for a list to fill Enzo's terminal screen, a whole lot of white text.

Cass, looking over Enzo's shoulder, growls something at Dean.

"Empire, that's what," Dean tells him, without bothering to translate. "I didn't do anything to set 'em off. We were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Lucky we even made it out. So?"

"So," Enzo says, squinting at the screen, "we got a coupla hyperdrives back there we can rob some parts from, but they may not fit. They ain't your model, but you can prolly make it work. Scrap metal you can have. We're up to Cass' neck in it. Betcha if ya ask nice, he'll come tack it in for ya. Six thousand credits oughtta cover."

" _Thousand_?" Dean blurts.

Enzo blinks his strange eyes at Dean. "You'd be lucky to get these parts for less 'n ten thousand anywhere else here. But since I'm such a swell guy, I'm gonna give 'em to you at what I'd pay for 'em. Plus the scrap. Plus Cass. You know me. I wouldn't do you ya dirt." He spreads his little hands wide and grins. "Ba-da boom. Realest guys on the moon."

"We're not on a moon," Roman says, blinking.

"Don't worry about it," Dean says, digging some thousand credit coins out of his pocket and setting them on the counter. "It's his thing. That's the last of my coin, Enzo, so better be worth it."

Big Cass growls something very sharp at Dean, who just grunts a laugh and looks at Roman. "He says 'shut up and let's go round everything up.'"

Enzo sweeps the coins away. "Pleasure doin' business, Deano!"

* * *

It takes them longer than Roman had hoped it would to get all the parts, mostly owing to Cass having to disassemble a pair of hyperdrives to get the parts out of them. While he does that, Dean and Roman load up long pieces of scrap metal onto a hovering trailer, and follow Enzo around to grab some of the rest of the parts.

They're walking around carrying things in the blistering heat of the day, and everything is so hot to the touch that even the heavy gloves Roman pulls on don't do much to protect his hands. He's grateful that his body armor's temperature regulator is at least somewhat functional because he's pretty sure he'd be roasting, if not for that.

It takes maybe an hour and Dean stumbling with a handful of scrap in his hands for Roman to realize he's the only one of them who has that luxury.

He hurries over to help Dean up. The captain had shed his leather jacket at some point, but his face is bright, feverish red, and although his hair is still a little damp from sweat, his forehead is dry. He's blinking like he doesn't quite know what's going on. Definitely too much time in the sun. Immediately, Roman takes the metal and dumps it onto the hovering trailer.

"Come here, Captain," Roman says, grabbing Dean's hand. "Let's go sit in the shade."

Dean doesn't move. "We gotta. Thing. The ship. To fix. It's hot. Is it hot out here?"

"It's hot out here," Roman says. In heat like this, confusion can set in fast. "Let's go get you some water, huh? I bet you're thirsty."

"Thirsty," Dean nods. "Yeah. Yeah, 'm thirsty. Was gonna stop 'n get some, but we're - there's... We gotta hurry. The ship. No time. You weren't stopping."

"I have a cooler in my armor," Roman says. This time, Dean doesn't resist when Roman pulls him toward Enzo's shop. "Keeps my legs and my chest from overheating. That's why. But I'm real thirsty, too, now that you mention it."

As soon as Roman steps foot in the cluttered shop, Enzo zips away from where he's apparently been having a conversation with Cesartoo. "Yo. What's goin' on?"

"Overheated," Roman says. He walks Dean over to a trunk, pushes the scrap metal off of it, and sits Down on it without letting go of his hand. "We need some water. A wet towel or something if you have it, too."

"No problemo," Enzo says. "Sit tight. I got ya covered."

At the counter, Cesartoo makes the most long-suffering noise Roman has ever heard.

If Roman had to make a stab at a translation, it would probably either be,  _Not again_  or  _What an idiot_.

He hunkers down and tugs on the sweat-soaked V of Dean's shirt to get it away from his skin, flapping it a few times to try to get even a little cool air going there.

Dean turns and gives Roman a bewildered look. "Y'takin' my clothes off? Thought we were gonna wait 'til after Yavin."

Cesartoo emits a series of startled, high-pitched beeps and then starts chortling.

" _Quiet_ ," Roman says to him.   "No, Captain. We're just trying to cool you off."

Thankfully, Enzo flies out of the back with a jug of cool water, a soaking wet towel, and a small air fan before Dean can say anything else embarrassing. Roman wrings the towel out over Dean's head and shoulders, half drenching him, and then drops the towel over his head. He clips the fan onto a piece of metal hanging overhead, and turns it on so it's blowing cool air right on Dean's head.

After that, he gets water into both of them. Dean starts sweating his out almost immediately, so Roman has Enzo fill up the jug again, and makes Dean drink more.

Cass wanders in from outside, shedding his sun hood, just about the time Dean pushes the jug away and says, "That's enough, that's enough. I'm gonna get sick if you make me drink more."

Sounds more like himself when he says it.

Roman lowers the jug and has him scoot over on the trunk. "You should've stopped to get some water earlier, Captain," he says gently. "Gotta take care of yourself."

"Tryin' to get all the work done," Dean mutters. He flicks the towel back off his forehead and looks over at Cass. "We got everything?"

But because it's that kind of  _life_  lately, Cass doesn't even have a chance to answer.

A shadow crosses the front entryway to the shop, drawing everybody's attention that way.

It belongs to a huge slug-like non-human that's probably about as tall as Roman, and so wide it that can barely fit through the door.

A Hutt.

The Hutt's skin is mottled dark green and gray. It has a long tail that it drags behind it when it slithers into the room. On its face, it has two beady, frog-like brown eyes with vertical pupils, mismatched nostrils, and a flat crevice of a mouth. Ringing it - his? - eyes there's a thin black marking, almost like goggles all the way around. In the middle of that marking, right above the Hutt's nose, there's an odd little white square.

The mood in the room becomes tense, especially when Roman looks past the Hutt and sees a couple of armed armed guards standing there. Not Stormtroopers, but they're still carrying Stormtroopers' weapons.

"Bubba," Dean croaks.

The Hutt sticks his slimy tongue out over his lower lip, shakes his head, and makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like, "Whasssssup."

Beside Roman, Dean swallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's completely Bubba Ray Dudley as a Hutt. (You can Google Jabba the Hutt if you want to see what one looks like). Also, Enzo is based on Watto from "The Phantom Menace." But, you know, not a disgusting piece of slave-owning filth like Watto was. Enzo is awesome. Also, la la la la, I can't hear that Enzo and Cass broke up. I don't care. Cass makes an awesome Wookie.
> 
> The Bubba the Hutt thing ties back to the conversation Dean and Roman had about Dean's debt to the Hutts in chapter 13.


	21. Closer (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you can thank titaniumkitten for these next two chapters. These are ridiculous and really self-indulgent. My apologies in advance. What are ya gonna do? :)

**XXI. Closer (III)**

Over the years, one Hutt or another had attempted to hire Roman to track down a bounty.

Preferring not to tangle himself up with the criminal underworld, Roman never took a single job from them. There were plenty of legitimate jobs out there that didn't require him to track down criminals for a criminal. He left a lot of money on the table doing that, but he was been able to sleep at night knowing he was working on the right side of the law.

Or at least thinking he was.

The Empire is probably dirtier than the Hutts, all things considered.

From his seat on Enzo's wooden chest, Roman watches three bounty hunters sidle into the shop behind Bubba, every one of them wearing old-style head-to-toe armor, complete with capes and helmets. All of them carrying weapons.

"Yo yo yo," Enzo says, flying out from behind the counter, "we don't want no trouble, Bubba."

Cass cross his arms over his chest and growls in agreement.

Roman eases his hand to rest on the butt of his own blaster.

Dean, meanwhile, pulls the soaking wet towel off his head and sets it between his feet. "Listen, Bubba," he says, voice a little weak, "your cargo never made it. I ran into some trouble. Empire. They shot open my holds and I lost everything. You go out to the launchpad, you'll see the damage to my ship yourself. We barely got away."

"I can vouch for that," Roman says.

The Hutt looks at him with its big eyes, blinks. "Who are you?" he asks in his deep, guttural voice. Like Cass, he doesn't speak Standard, but Huttese is a language Roman's dad insisted he learn.

"Roman Reigns," Roman answers. "I'm sorry about your cargo, Bubba. It's my fault that it got lost. I hired Captain Ambrose here to take me to catch a bounty. We got tangled up in some Rebellion-Empire skirmish on the way. The cargo got lost by accident. It wasn't his fault."

Bubba worms his way further into the shop, upending a table full of parts with his tail. "You can pay me half a million credits for it, then."

"Half a million?" Dean splutters. "That shipment was worth half of that. It was Wudu hide, not bacta. Don't try to scam me. Might be a little scrambled right now, but I know exactly what I had and I remember you told me exactly how much it's worth. Two hundred fifty thousand credits."

Two hundred fifty thousand is still a lot - far and away more than he has saved.

His ship, which at the time was a top-of-the-line model, had cost a little over half that, with modifications.

"Penalty plus interest," Bubba says to Ambrose. His eyes narrow. "A million credits. Not negotiable. Do not make me get the tables."

"Get the tables?" Roman mutters at Dean.

"It's this thing he does," Dean mutters back. "He throws people through wooden tables. Or has 'em dropped. Thinks it's hilarious. It's not. It hurts. Trust me. I was pickin' splinters outta my backside for a month."

"Half a million credits," Bubba the Hutt repeats.

"I don't have half a million credits," Roman admits. "I have fifty thousand on me I can put toward it."

"We'll work off the rest," Dean says. He's still fiery red in the face and sweat-soaked, but he's definitely more with it. "I owe you two shipments to replace the last two, and we can do, what, another two more? That's fair. We just - we have one thing we gotta do, and then we'll be back. I need seven days."

Bubba chuckles, deep and guttural. "Do you think I'm a fool? In seven days, you could disappear."

"You have my word on it that I wouldn't," Dean says.

"Your word?" Bubba's tail thumps the floor. "You gave your word you'd have my last shipment delivered three days ago. Your word means nothing."

"Take my word, then," Roman interjects. "Ask around. I'm a bounty hunter. People know me. I'm a man of my word."

"I'll vouch for 'em, Bubba," Enzo puts in from where he's hovering near Cass. "We know Roman around these parts. We know he never did nobody dirty." He looks at Cass. "Right?"

Cass growls something that sound like,  _Right_.

"Hmmmm." Bubba's slimy tongue flicks out across his lower lip while he considers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Roman sees Dean scratch the back of his neck and his head like he's agitated, and settles a calming hand on the captain's leg.

"No deal," Bubba says, raising a chubby hand.

Roman shoots to his feet, blaster pulled and ready to start firing, but something stings the side of his neck before he gets that far. He slaps a reflexive hand over it and finds a dart of some kind there. By the time he yanks it out, he's already feeling dizzy.

"Dean, run!" he tries to say, but his tongue won't cooperate, and all that comes out is, "Nnnn."

The last thing he hears before the floor rushes up at him is Dean talking complete gibberish.

 _Doesn't make sense,_  he thinks, and pitches forward.

* * *

A shock of icy cold water on bare skin snaps Roman awake out of a nightmare.

And drops him straight into another: a cage, specifically, and a throbbing headache. Harsh lights in his eyes. Voices babbling around him in languages he can't understand. The feeling like he's wearing a lot less clothes than he should be.

It's the damp on bare skin that finally gets him to claw his way toward consciousness, and a familiar pained groan from somewhere nearby that gets him to pry his eyes open. All he sees is flat black above him.

"'mbrose?" he manages, half a mutter.

"Not s'loud," is the answer. "Musta hit th' Mrief harder 'n I thought."

"WAAAAAASSSUUUUUUP!" a deep, guttural voice screams at them. It doesn't scream. It just sounds like it does. "SIT UP AND LET MY FRIENDS SEE YOU!"

"Bubba?" Dean sounds confused. Roman hears him shift around. "Wha's goin' on?"

Roman somehow manages to drag himself vertical, no mean feat considering his hands are tied behind him and his head feels like a Wookie is standing on it. He does see more than flat black, though. Bars. Bubba the Hutt sitting in a big throne with a lot of pillows around it in front of several large open windows. Some others standing around, including the fuzzy outlines of what look like bounty hunters with blaster rifles.

"What's going on?" he demands himself, ignoring the ugly throb in his temples. "Where are we? Where's my armor? What are we doing here?"

"Repaying your debt," Bubba says from his throne. "You alone are worth four hundred thousand credits on the slave market. Whatever I get for Ambrose is profit."

"Whatever you get?" Dean protests. "Hey. 'M worth a lot."

Bubba chuckles. "As Bantha fodder, you may be. The auction is not until tomorrow. You stay here until then as ornamentation. Be aware those collars around your necks can kill you. All I have to do is press a button."

Collars.

When Roman finally looks over at Dean, he sees what Bubba means: there's an ornate gold collar around Dean's neck. Roman can feel a similar one around his own. But that's not all: Dean's bare-chested, bare-legged, and barefoot. All he's wearing is what looks like two strips of maroon fabric held up on his waist by two interlocked gold clasps. His hips and the sides of his rear end are exposed. Roman's dressed the same, except his fabric is black and the clasps are silver. He has two silver arm bands around his biceps instead of the gold that Dean has.

The worst part is that his weapon is hanging free under the fabric.

If he shifts the wrong way, either front or back, he'll expose himself.

He's careful not to shift the wrong way.

Dean lets his head fall back against the bars behind him. "Here we go again."

"Let us go, Bubba," Roman tries again. It's hard to think straight when all he wants to do is curl up and go back to sleep. "You're looking at this all wrong. You can make money off of selling us once, or you could let us work off our debt and make money off of us many times. In the long run, you'd make a lot more off of us that way."

Up on the throne, Bubba grabs something out of a little tank in the arm of his chair and shoves it into his mouth. The thing is still squealing when he munches it. Roman's stomach turns. "There's less risk this way," Bubba says through his mouthful. "I'll have my money, and I'm rid of you. Now quiet. Music! Music!"

Off to Roman's right is the ship proper, where maybe two-dozen beings from all over the Galaxy stand around with drinks in hand, a little red-and-white droid zigging and zagging between them with a tray. It's bright: the large windows around the sides of the cabin are thrown open. On the opposite side to the windows there's a six- or eight-piece band of some species Roman's not familiar with. They start playing some uptempo, brassy music, while a signer wails over it in a language Roman doesn't understand.

His head pounds in time with the beat.

He leans back against the bars and shifts over so he's pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean. Something that had been nagging deep in the back of his mind when he looked at Dean finally breaks through. Alarm shoots through him. "You don't have the data crystal," he says into Dean's ear. "The plans."

Without moving his lips much, Dean says, "Right before they darted me, I dropped it back at Enzo's and told Cesartoo to get it to Yavin. Hopefully Jabba didn't confiscate my ship. Cass can help get it fixed up and Seth can fly. Failing that, Enzo can probably help Seth and Cesartoo find a ship out."

Relief loosens the knot in Roman's chest. "Good. That's - good. Good thinking."

"I just hope they listen," Ambrose says, grim. "Don't do anything stupid like try to come rescue us. How are we gonna get out of this one? Death collars, cages, restraints, and armed guards. That's a lot."

"In other words, it's just a typical day for you," Roman says.

Dean blinks. Stares. Blinks again. "Did you just...? Was that a joke? Did you just crack a joke?"

Roman manages to hold a straight face. "I would never joke in a serious situation, Captain. That would be unprofessional." He shakes his head and turns again to look out at the bright cabin, where the passengers are nodding in time to the music and staring at Dean and Roman. "I have no idea what to do here yet."

"At least they gave me a pretty view," Dean says.

"P-oh." Roman's ears heat up when he glances back around and sees what Dean is looking at. "Not the time, Captain."

"I'm just saying, you look good like this. Pretty. I like it."

"You look pretty, too," Roman says, flicking a deliberate look down Dean's lightly-furred chest and thighs. "Real pretty. So pretty a man could see wanting to see you dressed up like this all the time."

It's retaliation. He doesn't actually mean it. He doesn't think he does. Then again, he might. Maybe. Maybe he does. Dean has nice thighs. Nice legs in general. The outfit there, it does show them off nicely. His chest, too. The narrow taper of his waist, and-

 _Not. The. Time_.

Dean straightens his legs and crosses one ankle over the other. "I could use a little more support, honestly. Things are dangling. Not real fond of that. But it's comfortable otherwise."

"Captain," Roman growls. But can't resist adding, "I'm not fond of that, either. I prefer to have my weapon in a holster. But that's - it's not important. If they don't let us out of this cage, I don't know what we can do. Even if we tried to fight out once they did let us out, there's the collars."

"If one of us went for Bubba before he could press the button, maybe we'd stand a chance," Dean says. "I don't know how we'd do that without a blaster, though. If we could get one from one of the guards, we might stand a chance, but we'd have to be quick. Assuming we get out of the cage. All kidding aside, I really don't want to be sold at a slave auction."

"Me neither," Roman says. The Hutts sell anyone they can to the highest bidder for any use. Most are used as disposable labor on planets with bad conditions, but some are sold to brothels, and rumor has it some are actually sold as feed. It's a disgusting, horrible business that the Empire has always claimed to be unable to stop, but that Roman suspects is something they're just unwilling to. The Hutts probably pay well for the privilege of being able to do whatever they want.

It's that kind of Galaxy.

* * *

To his surprise, he and Dean are served bowls of water and food - some kind of meat and fruit that's been cut up into chunks they can eat without hands - about an hour later. The only downside is with their hands tied behind them, they have no choice but to get on their knees and bend over the bowls like dogs.

Roman doesn't doubt for a second that's why Bubba does it: entertainment.

It's probably meant as humiliation for Roman and Dean.

And Bubba's guests laugh like it's the funniest thing they've ever seen when Dean overbalances and nearly pitches face-first into his water bowl. Dean ignores them after he rights himself. Roman does too. He takes a tiny bite of each bit of food in the bowl, and, after he doesn't feel any ill effects from it, eats it all.

Keeping his strength up is more important than his pride at this point.

And he feels better afterward, rehydrated and refreshed, his headache beginning to recede.

For all that the suns had burned his face an angry red, Dean looks better, too, much more alert and with it than he had after Roman dragged him into Enzo's shop.

That's good.

What's not good is that Bubba's guests start chanting something that sounds an awful lot like, "We want tables! We want tables!" almost as soon as Dean and Roman have finished.

"No," Dean mutters, eyes widening. "No no no no no. Not the tables. Not the tables. Not the tables."

" _We want tables!_ " The floor rumbles when they stomp their feet. " _We want tables!_ "

Bubba, up on his throne, throws his arms up and shouts, " _GET THE TABLES_!"

By which he means literal tables. Half a dozen of them. Pale wooden ones. Bubba's guests all move to the periphery of the floor, while two big, hairy men bring the tables out and double-stack them in a rough U-shape in the middle of the room. They're sturdy tables.

Whoever goes through them is going to get hurt.

And while the crowd of bounty hunters and sycophants is still stomping for the tables, Bubba the Hutt waves a chubby arm at a trio of his guards, who pivot away from his chair and march straight down the steps - and right to the cage.

Beside Roman, Captain Ambrose slumps back against the bars. "It'll be me. You watch."

"Not necessarily," Roman mutters.

It is.

One of the guards holds a blaster to the back of Roman's head through the bars, while the other two step into the cage long enough to drag Dean out by his legs. Dean tries to fight them, kicking and twisting to get away, but with his hands bound behind him and bare feet, there's not much he can do against two guards with blasters. They stand him up and shove him toward the center of the room, toward the tables.

Roman shifts around and seats himself cross-legged at the corner of the cage to watch, helpless anger and something very like fear burning at the back of his throat.

"Bubba!" he calls out over the rumble and din. "Bubba, whatever you're gonna do, do it to me - not him. I'm the one who owes you the money here. Take me instead."

Bubba chuckles, this slow  _huh...huh...huh_  that half-sounds like he's trying to dislodge something from his throat. "I will not have my prize slave damaged. Untie his hands," he booms at the guards. "Give him a sporting chance."

A brief spark of hope flares alight in Roman's chest when the guards take the manacles off of Dean's wrists.

It promptly dies when Bubba thunders, "Take a step out of that circle, and I will explode your head, Ambrose."

The collar.

In the center of the three table stacks, Captain Ambrose straightens, shaking out his arms. Despite wearing only two pieces of thigh-length maroon fabric over his front and rear, there's something oddly dignified about the way he raises his head and turns to regard Bubba. "I always knew you were a fool, Bubba, but I didn't realize until just now how stupid you really are. I could make your money back five times over if you'd let me, but you'd rather throw that away on a few seconds' entertainment and a slave auction. It's no wonder you have nothing to rule over but your own pathetic little ship."

Out of the corner of his eye, Roman sees Bubba raise his hand as if to hit the button to activate the collar, and the bottom drops out of his stomach. But Bubba merely calls for silence. His guests, all ringed around the the tables, oblige and fall quiet. Bubba chuckles his grinding chuckle. "I always liked you, Ambrose. It is a shame you can't be trusted to keep your word. I'm going to enjoy this 'few seconds' entertainment.'  _Braun_!"

" _BRAAAAAUN_!" something roars from inside the ship.

That  _something_  isn't the largest thing Roman's ever seen, but that  _something_  is still  _huge_. It's a tall, hairy humanoid whose head brushes the ceiling when it - he - makes his way into the room. He can barely fit through the doors, he's so wide across. When he stops next to Dean, Dean looks like an actual child, barely reaching up to Braun's massive barrel of a chest. Braun grins down at Dean with the kind of malevolent glee that makes Roman's skin crawl, that makes him surge against the grimy bars.

" _NO_!"  _Not like this. Not like this_.

No one pays him any heed.

Dean's red skin pales considerably.

" _We want tables!"_  Bubba's guests start chanting again.

And Bubba chuckles. " _TABLES!"_

His guests roar.

Braun swipes out a massive hand to grab at Ambrose, who ducks under it and kicks a bare heel at Braun's shin. The giant barely blinks. Ambrose backs away fast, but only manages to bump into the tables behind him.

"His groin!" Roman yells at him. "Ambrose, hit him in the groin!"

Dean ducks another attempt to grab him and dances off to one side, nearly stumbling over his feet.

" _Braun! Braun! Braun!"_  the crowd starts yelling.

When Braun pivots, big and clumsy, to try grabbing at Ambrose again, Ambrose squares up and kicks Braun straight between the legs like he's trying to punt a ball down a field. It's a hard kick, the impact audible even over all the voices reverberating around the room, and Braun's breath leaves his huge lungs in a rush. Ambrose limps away as the big man crashes down to his knees, a hand cradling his groin.

But it's a short-lived victory, because Braun has long arms, and Ambrose doesn't stay out of his reach.

Roman watches it unfold in slow motion: the look of triumph on Ambrose's face, the sudden shock of the hand clamping around his throat, the dismay.

Braun staggering to his feet.

Raising Ambrose up.

The explosive sound the first table stack makes when Ambrose is slammed through it back-first. He breaks through both tables on his way to the floor, wood fragments snapping around him, and lands in a stunned heap in the middle of the wreckage.

" _One more time!_ " the near-orgasmic crowd starts chanting.

"No!" Roman shouts over it. "Bubba, no! That's enough! That's  _enough_."

But Braun's already bending down to pick Ambrose up by the shoulders. The big man is walking gingerly, Roman notes with a rush of bitter satisfaction, but it hardly matters. He carries a limp Ambrose as if the captain weighed as little a feather.

This time Roman can't watch.

Or the third time.

All he can do is sit in the corner of the cage helpless and seething, silently promising himself that every single person on this ship - the laughing, chanting mass of them - will pay for this.

If it's the last thing he does, they'll pay.

* * *

After he's gone through all three table stacks, Dean's dragged back into the cage and dumped like a sack of rocks. He's unconscious, bleeding in better than a dozen places in his back, everything from splinters and small scratches to a small wood shard caught just under his shoulder blade. There are bands of deep red across his back where he'd crashed down. Three of them.

And Roman can't do anything about them because his hands are still locked behind him.

All he can do is crawl over and wedge himself against the bars and nudge his thigh under Dean's head as a kind of makeshift pillow. Dean stirs just a little, groans in pain, and curls up into Roman's hip.

Bubba chuckles like he's delighted, and yells for the musicians to start playing again.

His guards clean up the remains of the tables.

Braun comes over to the cage and grins down at Roman and Dean.

Roman leans over Dean as much as he can, trying to block him from Braun's view. "You're gonna die first."

The big man's grin widens even more as he wanders up to Bubba's throne.

In Roman's lap, Dean groans again.

The music gets loud.

Roman glares at every face in the room, trying to memorize them.

_You'll all pay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just, um. Google "Princess Leia slave outfit" if you want an idea what it is Dean and Roman are wearing. You're welcome. Thanks again, titaniumkitten.


	22. Closer (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's the other half of this...thing. Double update. With slave outfits. And stuff. And things. And - oh. You'll see when you get there. :)

**XXII. Closer IV**

At some point, he dozes.

He dreams of his life before bounty hunting, of the time when he was a small boy on Coruscant, watching the endless streams of vehicles caught in the jetway overhead, and believing in magic.

And later, as his father's apprentice, listening to stories of some mystical Force and those who used to wield it. The Jedi were myth by then. There were no such things as knights who could wield some mystical energy and manipulate it like a weapon. Their laser swords were things of children's tales. Roman had scoffed that he couldn't imagine what a weapon like that would even look like.

( _Oh, but he could. What a bright, luminous thing it was, a sword made of focused crystal light and strong enough to melt metal_.)

Why he thinks of that in his sleep, he couldn't say, but what sleep he gets is interrupted soon enough by an odd tugging sensation behind him.

He jerks awake all at once, fighting panic when he can't remember where he is and can't understand why he can't  _move_.

" _Shhhh_ ," someone hisses near him, rough and strained. " _Roman_. Shh. Bubba's sleeping."

"W-? Dean?" Roman breathes out. It's night-dark and chilly, quiet. And the voice had been down around his hands. "What's...?"

"Hold still," Dean mutters at him. "I can't see what - ah. There."

There's a quiet clatter, and suddenly Roman's hands are free. His whole body is pins and needles from the way he's been crammed against the cage's bars and sitting under Dean's head, so finally being able to stretch himself out is probably the single-greatest relief there is.

In the low light, it's hard to see Dean's face. "You all right?"

"I got this chunk of wood in my shoulder," Dean answers. Or doesn't. That's not really an answer. "Could you get it out for me?"

"Turn over," Roman grunts, still trying to shake feeling back into his fingers. He's more amused than he probably should be at the way Dean kind crawls over his legs and flops facedown. Working by feel, Roman carefully pries a piece of wood half the size of his palm out of Dean's back, and pitches it out of the cage. Afterward, he passes his palm gently over the blood-crusty skin to search out more splinters. There are a few, and he makes quick work of prying them free.

When he's done, Dean drags himself up so he's slumped against the bars beside Roman. "Thanks."

"Are you all right?" Roman asks again.

"Met this old guy here once who said the trick to it is you flap your arms out like you're tryina," Dean says. "So you spread it out when you crash through the tables. Hit more on your shoulders and your upper back. Harder to do that 'n you think. But I'll live. I can still walk. You can take your collar off, by the way. It's just a twist lock. Hold one side and spin the other. It'll come off. Guess they forgot they didn't tie my hands back up."

"They probably weren't counting on you coming out of it," Roman says, looping a gentle arm around Dean's shoulders and drawing him in. "All right, Captain. We've got some breathing room. Now how do we get out of this?"

Dean actually leans closer and slips his own arm around Roman's back, low, fingers trailing down toward the exposed part of Roman's hip. "You tell me, Commander. M'brains are still kinda scrambled. Guess if they open the cage, we can try to attack 'em, but..."

"Maybe we can rig the manacles and collars to look like they're still on," Roman muses, speaking almost directly into Dean's ear so as not to be overheard. "I wait by the door and make my move as soon as they open it."

"'F I pretend I'm still out, that'll help."

"Right." Roman doesn't dare suggest Dean just wait in the cage. It'd just be a waste of breath at this point, because injured or not, the captain'll want to fight. Roman would, too, in his position. They're both cut from the same cloth. Rather go down on their feet than cower.

But like so many of their plans before, it's a bad one. They're both basically naked - something Roman is painfully aware of, given all the skin-to-skin contact - and there isn't anything like good cover in Bubba's wide open room here. There are a few pillars, but they're not wide enough to fully protect a person. They'll be better than nothing, and he feels Dean nod when he points that out.

They need to look at getting the manacles and collars back on, but Roman allows himself a selfish moment to enjoy the closeness.

Which is just...

It's incomprehensible to him, how quickly this infuriating, scruffy nerf-herder of a captain has managed to slip in and chip away at the layers of detachment and training that have kept him safe all these years.  _Compromised_ , he thinks again, uneasy. That sick, helpless swoop of anger when he'd been unable to do anything but watch Dean go through the tables had blown everything sensible out of his head, and that is so, so dangerous.

 _Keep it together, Reigns,_  he tells himself.

But.

Either he shifts or Dean does. Maybe they both do. It doesn't matter. Because something shifts, and then they're both moving closer like they have the same idea. Probably do. Roman finds Dean's fever-hot face in the dark and they bump noses and Roman tips his head the other way and then.

And then.

Wild banthas won't drag it out of him, but it's been nearly five years since Roman's kissed anyone. As busy as he's been establishing his name, there just hasn't been time to properly court a lover. There's been time for bunkmates, and he's certainly had his share of them, but he never kissed any. That was just about physical release.

This is not that.

This is an awkward press of dry lips to chapped ones in a cage on some forsaken dustball of a planet. Not where he'd expected - or wanted - to do this, but he doesn't let go. Dean doesn't try to pull away, either; he sighs and he leans into it, a hand cupping the back of Roman's neck to draw him closer.

He's intense, Dean is, and insistent, the way he licks his way into Roman's mouth and curls his tongue around Roman's and starts kissing Roman like it's the only thing keeping him from drowning. Desperate. It catches Roman off-guard, but he goes with it, kissing back for all he's worth because he can and he wants to and he doesn't know if they'll ever get another chance so might as well just go for it while they can. He cradles the back of Dean's head and pulls him as close as Dean's pulling him, and for the time being he's not thinking about Bubba or cages or slave auctions.

All there is is the feel of Dean's rough lips moving restless and relentless on his, calloused fingers, and that  _tongue_  that is just outrageously demanding. His hand on Dean's scarred, lightly-furred chest, inching downward toward what's covered by just a thin strip of fabric. Dean's on his hip moving over to his thigh, headed the same direction. The harsh, hot sound of their breathing in the cool quiet of this enormous room.

And  _good_. It's good.

But it can't last, and it doesn't.

They've no sooner come up from air than Roman hears a  _clang_  from somewhere deep in the ship, and he freezes.

It comes again.

Bubba grunts on the throne, but doesn't waken.

Dean leans closer to Roman's ear. "We need to-"

"Yeah," Roman says, trying not to shudder. "Yeah, we do."

 _Unfortunately_.

* * *

"You suppose Seth-3PO and Cesartoo have left the planet yet?" Roman asks a bit later. He's back in his uncomfortable hunch against the cage bars, hands tucked behind him.

Dean, curled up on his side with his head back on Roman's thigh, says, "Probably not. Gonna take more than a day to fix the ship, I imagine. But soon."

"They wouldn't come after us, would they?"

"They better not."

They do.

It's the next morning, harsh sunlight streaming through the many windows, right into the cage. Bubba wakes up grumpy and stuffs a bunch of live, squirming creatures into his mouth, and demands his guards take his  _pets_  - he gestures at Roman and Dean when he says this - to be cleaned up for today's entertainment.

His guests are not around yet.

Luck is on their side again.

 _This is it,_  Roman tells himself, shifting into place for the fight.

There's four guards this time, which would be decent odds if he didn't have the disadvantage of being in a cage, but he doesn't let himself worry about it. The guards clearly aren't counting on any kind of fight. Roman plays groggy and out-of-it, allowing them to drag him bodily out of the cage and standing by while they grab Dean and do the same.

Dean's really not playing groggy, Roman doesn't think; he's pale, face tight against pain that has him unable to stand up all the way. The red marks on his back are starting to bloom bruisy gray. They're ugly to look at, and it takes Roman every ounce of effort he possesses not to start swinging before it's time.

Roman seeks and finds the place he always goes right before a battle, that cool, deep well inside himself where he's at his most calm and centered.

Once they have Dean standing - swaying - outside the cage, that's when it's time to strike.

He catches Dean's eye and gets a tiny nod in return.

 _Ready_.

On a silent three count, they both strike, Roman dropping his manacles and pivoting to drive the heel of his hand into one of the guard's noses. The guard crumples to the ground. Roman has a precious half a second to rip the collar off of his neck while he spins to grab at the guard's blaster.

Up on the throne, Bubba shouts something Roman doesn't hear, and a horribly loud, piercing alarm begins to screech through the room.

The second guard puts up a fight, clobbering Roman in the jaw with an elbow and driving a booted heel right into the meat of his thigh. His leg buckles. He makes himself fall  _onto_  the guard, rather than away from him, and when they tumble down to the tiled ground, Roman manages to wrench the blaster away.

He shoots the guard with it, and then spins around to look for Dean.

Who's on the ground tussling with one of his guards.

Roman shoots the guard in the back and shoves him off, leaving a bloody-faced Dean free to grab the blaster that had fallen closest to him and use it to pull himself to his feet. He does so slowly, like an old man, and he's even paler than he'd been when he'd woken up.

They don't have time to savor the victory, because Roman hears, " _BRAUUUUUNN!_ " from somewhere nearby, and Dean turns murderous blue eyes on Bubba.

"Go get him," Roman says.

When Dean takes off at a painful jog, Roman notices the piece of fabric that had been covering Dean's backside had gotten ripped off in the fight with the guard.

Not a bad view.

 _Not now_ , Roman tells himself, and hurries off to the door.

He swears he can hear shooting in the ship somewhere, but doesn't pay it much mind because he can feel big Braun stomping his way into the room. He runs over to the doorway and plasters himself to the wall beside it, blaster set to heavy stun.

When the big man bursts into the room, Roman opens fire.

Up closer, Braun is even bigger than he'd looked when he was attacking Dean, about twice Roman's size and  _mean_. The blaster bolts knock him backward toward the wall, but don't actually seem to phase him that much. He swats out almost casually with a massive paw and flicks the blaster out of Roman's hands. It clatters to the floor and skitters out of reach.

When he dives for it, he has a half-second glimpse of Dean strangling Bubba the Hutt with a piece of chain, but there's no time for celebration - not with a half-ton of angry bearing down on him like a charging rancor. Scrabbling fingers find the butt of the blaster rifle, but can't close around it in time because Braun grabs his leg and drags him away. He feels himself picked up bodily and flung into the wall like he's a piece of  _nothing_.

He hits painfully hip-first and bounces down onto the ground, pain flaring deep in his shoulder and his leg.

Best he can, he shoves it down and shakes it off and scrambles to his feet. Somehow he manages to step on the piece of fabric covering him in the front, and he nearly falls on his face when it rips away.

Behind him, Braun actually laughs.

"The groin, Roman!" Dean calls from across the room. "Hit him in the groin!"

 _Right_.

Roman turns around and takes off at a dead sprint, running for Braun as fast as his aching body can carry him. He launches himself as hard as he can right at Braun's groin, and hits shoulder-first before the big oaf can turn away.

Braun  _howls_  in pain, and collapses to his knees, nearly crushing Roman's head when he goes down.

Winded, Roman rolls away and hurries off to grab his blaster.

Just about the time he turns to open fire, Dean opens fire from the other side of the room, the pair of them pegging Braun with blaster bolts until he finally collapses onto his back, unconscious.

"Come on," Roman says, turning away from him. "Let's get off this boat."

"Uh, Roman?" Dean says from where he's standing by a very much strangled-to-death Bubba the Hutt.

"What?" Roman asks.

Dean clears his throat and points to Roman's front. "You, uh. Your weapons is, uh, out of its holster. I - uh. Don't really  _mind_ , but you probably wanna put it away. 'Cuz, you know. The sun. Don't want it getting burnt."

"What are you...?" Roman looks down at himself and feels mortification creep in when he remembers he's completely exposed. He covers himself with a hand. "Oh."

"Captain? Captain Ambrose?" a familiar voice calls from the doorway where Braun had come in. "Commander Reigns? Are you in here?"

All at once, Captain Ambrose's expression goes very dark. "Seth-3PO, that had better not be you."

It is.

The golden droid stumps through the doorway, followed closely by Cesartoo-D2, rolling along and beeping excitedly.

"What are you doing here?" Dean seethes, limping away from Bubba's body and joining them at the door. "I told you to get those plans to Yavin 4, Cesartoo. Why are you here?"

"Well, you're  _welcome_ ," Seth-3PO snits. "I did just incapacitate half a dozen of Bubba's guards who were probably on their way to shoot you. Which..." He turns in his awkward, stuff way to look at the throne. "You killed him. Did he make you go through tables? Is that why you're bent over like a question mark?"

"Yes," Ambrose says curtly. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

While Cesartoo-D2 beeps a defensive answer, Roman walks over to pick up the torn scrap of fabric, tucks it back in so he's standing there with his weapon hanging out.

"What did he say?" he calls over.

"They left the plans with Cass and Enzo, and said if they're not back in a day, take them."

"Are they Rebellion?" Roman asks, rubbing his face.

"They're sympathetic." The captain gives his two droids a hard, angry look. "I left those plans for you two because I wanted you to take them. I trusted you with them. That doesn't mean hand them off to someone else and come get us. Those plans are more important."

Cesartoo beeps something quietly that makes Dean stop and stare at him. "No, I'm not, Cesartoo."

"Yes, you are, Captain," Seth-3PO says. "To us. Enzo and Cass have a good ship. We know them. We trust them. They would have gotten the plans there." He pauses. "You're welcome. Can we please get off this barge before anyone else tries to kill us? I've got dents on top of dents, and you look like you're about to pass out on your feet. Again."

"I'm fine," Ambrose mutters crossly. "Is my ship fixed?"

"They main hyperdrive is repaired," Seth-3PO replies. "But there's still a lot more work to-"

Cesar2-D2 beeps a sudden warning as the four of them step out of the corridor, just before a hail of red blaster bolts cuts through the air. There's a pair of guards at the far end, hiding around a corner.

"Go!" Seth-3PO says, raising his blaster. "Go!"

Roman pushes Dean in front of him, toward the railing where the  _Falcon's_  ramp had been dropped down right onto the catwalk of Bubba's barge here. It's a mad dash and Roman's pretty sure Cesartoo gets clipped by a stray bolt or two, but they make it into the ship. He and Ambrose take up positions on either side of the doorway to cover for Seth-3PO, who shuffles his way quickly away from the guards he'd shot.

Once he's aboard, Captain Ambrose smashes the button to close the door.

Fuming, Roman walks away from them and marches right up to the central ladder, and climbs up, ignoring the way the rungs' sandpaper grit tears at the bottom of his bare feet. There's something he is going to do before they leave.

"What are you doing?" Ambrose calls up to him.

"Move the ship away from the barge," Roman replies. "I'm going to dispose of it."

Payback, he guesses, for every one of those people who'd chanted " _Get the tables_!" - he's going to have nightmares about that - or laughed each time Dean fell to the ground.

He flings himself down in the chair and grabs hold of the quadlasers' stick controls.

After a few seconds, the  _Falcon_  eases away from Bubba's barge.

Roman opens fire on it, snarling like a feral dog as he does.

Seeing it go up in flames is very, very satisfying.

 _I told you you'd pay_.

* * *

He's halfway to the bunk room to put on clothes when it occurs to him he doesn't  _have_  clothes.

His armor had been back on Bubba's barge, and he'd just blown it up.

No ship. No armor. No weapon.

Little by little, all his things has been stripped away from him, and now he's standing in the middle of a cramped corridor with nothing to his name but a pair of pants that leaves nothing to the imagination, and these two strips of black cloth with their silver clasp. And he's honestly not sure which one is worse.

They'd survived, at least. Somehow. Again.

In the bunk room, he finds a sullen Captain Ambrose lying face down on the lower bunk, bare backside still exposed, and Cesar2-D2 standing nearby. The medkit is on the floor.

Roman pauses just inside the room and raises eyebrows. "Do I wanna know what's going on in here?"

"That pile of gold scrap locked me out of my cockpit," the captain answers in a quiet, lethally angry voice, "and insisted Cesartoo here babysit me until you could come take care of my back."

"You didn't think about covering up?" Roman asks, trying not to look.

Failing.

He looks.

It's only fair, considering all the looking and leering Dean's done to him.

"I don't care," Dean grumbles.

"Speaking of covering up," Roman says, skirting around Cesartoo to take a seat on the edge of Ambrose's bunk, "I don't suppose you have any spare clothing that might fit me, would you? I think my armor was back on Bubba's ship."

Cesartoo beeps and swivels his domed head back and forth a few times.

Dean frees his arm from under his pillow and points to the upper bunk. "He says it's up there. Enzo bought it from Bubba."

And sure enough, Roman finds his vest, pants, boots, and blaster all neatly stacked on the top bunk.

He nearly collapses onto Dean's bunk with the relief.

Doesn't let himself think about the fact that it means he'd have been stripped naked  _before_  being taken to Bubba's ship, probably.

It doesn't matter.

He doesn't rush to put it on, though. Just knowing it's there and he can is enough to calm him down.

"I suppose we should look after you first, Captain," he says, picking up the medkit and fishing out a bacta pack and some cleaning pads. "That back looks painful."

"It's fine," Dean says impatiently. "Hurry up. I have a droid to go shut off."

"He can handle piloting until we get back to Mos Eisley," Roman says reasonably, and Cesartoo chirps an agreement. "So, now that Bubba's gone, you're free of your debt, aren't you?"

A change in subject seems in order. Dean looks startled. "I hadn't even thought about it, but yeah, I guess I am. Huh."

Roman tears open a cleaning pad and uses it to wipe away the dried blood from Dean's back. He's careful to stay above the clasp, which has shifted down to right above the curve of his backside. Dean lies still, forearms folded under his pillow again and his cheek resting on it. He genuinely doesn't seem to care that he's basically naked right now, long lean body just stretched right out there.

Growling a little under his breath, Roman grabs a blanket off the top bunk and throws it over Dean's legs and rear end. It earns him a strange look from Dean himself and a chortle from Cesartoo, but he doesn't acknowledge either of them.

"I got this, Cesartoo," he says. "You can go do whatever you need to."

Cesartoo chortles again and rolls away.

Humming something that sounds a lot like a popular romance tune on his way out the door.

Dean lifts his head and glares suspiciously after him, but doesn't comment.

Relieved, Roman makes quick work of slathering the bacta on Dean's back. The gel begins to warm almost immediately, and as it does, the tight lines at the corners of Dean's eyes begin to smooth away. Little by little, the tension in his body begins to ease, too.

He even lets Roman feed him a pain pack without much more than a token protest.

"You need this," Roman says simply, and it's a measure of how much he's probably hurting that Dean doesn't argue beyond that. "And you need to let Seth-3PO pilot the ship for a bit. He's just looking out for you."

"He shouldn't be," Dean says, frowning. "They shouldn't have come after us."

"No," Roman admits. "They shouldn't have. I'm glad they did, though. I can't imagine trying to ride back to Mos Eisley on a speeder bike dressed like this."

Dean's eyes, those odd, mercurial things, flick slowly up and down Roman's torso. Roman minds it less than he used to. "Been a pretty picture," Dean says, languid and easy. "Although I'd've worried 'bout your weapon gettin' burnt. You got a nice one. Shame if it got all crispy."

"Nobody likes a crispy weapon," Roman agrees. "Stop talking about my weapon."

"'M gonna be firin' your weapon one of these days, probably," Dean says through a yawn, "so y'better get used to me talking about it. I like it. And, um. What you're wearin' right now? Don't throw it away, huh? 'S comfy. Might wanna revisit this sometime."

"Get some rest, Captain," Roman says, rising abruptly and gathering the trash, along with all his things from the top bunk. "I'm gonna go see if Cesartoo needs a pair of hands for any repairs. Sooner we get the ship done, the sooner we can be on our way to Yavin."

"'M fine, Commander," Dean mutters, but he's half asleep already, the combination of the bacta and the painkiller already working together. Probably the fatigue, too. And the heat stroke. And losing Becky and Sasha and AJ. And everything else.

One thing after another after another, and Roman U-turns abruptly in the middle of the room, head back over to the bunk, and bends down to press a kiss into the corner of Dean's mouth, soft and chaste.

Dean blinks glassy eyes at him a few times, frowns a little, and doesn't say anything.

Roman's pulse stutters anyway, and as he walks away to get changed and get to work on the ship, he shakes his head at himself.

_Compromised._

Oh, this is not good.


End file.
